271 


UUR 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

FAMILIAR  TALKS  ON 
THE  DOMESTIC  ANIMALS 


BY 

JEAN-HENRI  FABRE 

Author  of  "The  Story  Book  of  Science,"  "Social 
Life  in  the  Insect  World,"  etc. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH 

BY 

FLORENCE  CONSTABLE  BICKNELL 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1918 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  September,  1918 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 

In  its  purpose  and  style  this  book  closely  re- 
sembles the  same  author's  "Story-Book  of  Science," 
and  it  belongs  to  the  same  series.  To  many  readers, 
however,  it  is  likely  to  prove  even  more  interesting 
than  its  predecessor,  inasmuch  as  the  domestic  ani- 
mals are  more  familiar  and  hence  more  interesting 
to  many  persons  than  the  ant,  the  spider,  the  plant- 
louse,  the  caterpillar,  and  other  examples  of  insect 
life  discussed  in  the  earlier  work.  Particularly  at 
this  time,  when  not  a  few  of  us,  both  old  and  young, 
are  turning  our  attention,  however  inexpertly,  to 
farming  in  a  small  way,  in  order  to  make  the  most  of 
nature's  food  resources  within  our  reach,  we  like  to 
become  a  little  better  acquainted  with  the  denizens 
of  the  farmyard  and  the  four-footed  helpers  in  the 
field.  The  pig  and  the  hen,  the  goose  and  the  turkey, 
the  ox  and  the  ass,  the  horse  and  the  cow,  the  sheep 
and  its  canine  keeper — these  and  many  other  old 
friends  of  ours  in  the  animal  kingdom  are  made  to 
enliven  the  following  pages  by  the  genius  and  skill 
of  him  who  knew  and  loved  them  all  as  few  natural- 
ists have  known  and  loved  their  dumb  fellow-crea- 
tures. 

Faithfulness  to  the  spirit  of  the  French  original 


M350996 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE 

has  throughout  been  striven  for  rather  than  a  blind 
subservience  to  the  letter.  May  the  attempt  to  ren- 
der at  least  a  little  of  the  charm  of  that  original  be 
found  not  wholly  unsuccessful! 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    THE  COCK  AND  THE  HEN 3 

II    THE  GIZZARD 9 

III  THE  CHIEF  KINDS  OF  POULTRY     ...     16 

IV  THE  EGG 21 

V    THE  EGG  (CONTINUED) 27 

VI  INCUBATION    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     36 

VII  THE  YOUNG  CHICKENS        .     ,     .     .     .     47 

VIII  THE  POULARD       ........     54 

IX    THE  TURKEY        . 61 

X  THE  GUINEA-FOWL   .......     73 

XI  THE  PALMIPEDES       .     ....     .     .     84 

XII  THE  DUCK      .........     94 

XIII  THE  WILD  GOOSE      .......  108 

XIV  THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE 120 

XV  THE  PIGEON   .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .130 

XVI    A  STORY  FROM  AUDUBON 141 

XVII    A  SUPPOSITION 150 

XVIII    A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY 159 

XIX    THE  JACKAL 173 

XX  THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS    ....  183 
XXI  THE   CHIEF   BREEDS  OF  DOGS    (CONTIN- 
UED)        193 

XXII  THE  VARIOUS  USES  OF  DOGS  ....  204 

XXIII  THE  ESKIMO  DOG 213 

XXIV  THE  DOG  OF  MONTARGIS 221 

XXV  HYDROPHOBIA                                               .  227 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI    THE  CAT 239 

XXVII     SHEEP 255 

XXVIII    THE  GOAT 271 

XXIX    THE  Ox 279 

XXX    MILK 293 

XXXI    BUTTER 298 

XXXII    RENNET     .     .  .  .    , 303 

XXXIII  CHEESE 308 

XXXIV  THE  PIG 316 

XXXV    PIG'S  MEASLES 329 

XXXVI    A  PERSISTENT  PARASITE 334 

XXXVII    THE  HORSE 343 

XXXVIII    THE  HORSE  (CONTINUED) 354 

XXXIX  THE  Ass   ,                                                 .  362 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   COCK   AND   THE   HEN 

UNDER  the  big  elm  tree  in  the  garden  Uncle 
Paul  has  called  together  for  the  third  time  his 
usual  listeners,  Emile,  Jules,  and  Louis.  After  the 
story  of  the  Ravagers,  which  destroy  our  harvests, 
and  that  of  the  Auxiliaries,  which  protect  them,  he 
now  proposes  to  tell  the  story  of  our  Humble  Help- 
ers, the  domestic  animals.  He  thus  begins : 

"The  cock  and  the  hen,  those  invaluable  members 
of  our  poultry-yards,  came  to  us  from  Asia  so  long 
ago  that  the  remembrance  of  their  coming  is  lost. 
At  the  present  day  they  have  spread  to  all  parts  of 
the  world. 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  describe  the  cock  to  you  f  Who 
has  not  admired  this  fine  bird,  with  its  bright  look, 
its  proud  bearing,  its  slow  and  sedate  walk?  On  its 
head  a  piece  of  scarlet  flesh  forms  a  scalloped  crest ; 
under  the  base  of  the  beak  hang  two  wattles  resem- 
bling pieces  of  coral ;  on  each  temple,  by  the  side  of 
the  ear,  is  a  spot  of  dull  white  naked  skin ;  a  rich  tip- 
pet of  golden  red  falls  from  the  neck  over  the  shoul- 
ders and  breast ;  two  feathers  of  a  greenish  metallic 

3 


4  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

luster  form  a  graceful  arch  of  plumage  in  the  upper 
part  of  the  tail.  The  heel  is  armed  with  a  horny 
spur,  hard  and  pointed;  a  formidable  weapon  with 
which,  in  fighting,  the  cock  stabs  his  rival  to  death. 
His  song  is  a  resonant  peal  that  makes  itself  heard 
at  all  hours,  night  as  well  as  day.  Hardly  does  the 
sky  begin  to  brighten  with  the  twilight  of  dawn  when, 
erect  on  his  perch,  he  awakens  the  nocturnal  echoes 
with  his  piercing  cock-a-doodle-doo,  the  reveille  of 
the  farm. ' ' 

"That,"  said  Emile,  "is  the  song  I  like  so  much  to 
hear  in  the  morning  when  I  am  about  half-way  be- 
tween sleeping  and  waking. '  > 

"It  is  the  cock's  crowing,"  put  in  Louis,  "that 
wakes  me  up  in  the  morning  when  I  have  to  go  to 
market  in  the  next  town.  > ' 

"The  cock  is  the  king  of  the  poultry-yard,"  re- 
sumed Uncle  Paul.  "Full  of  care  for  his  hens,  he 
leads  them,  protects  them,  scolds  and  punishes  them. 
He  watches  over  those  that  wander  off,  goes  in  quest 
of  the  vagrants,  and  brings  them  back  with  little 
cries  of  impatience,  which,  no  doubt,  are  admoni- 
tions. If  necessary,  a  peck  with  the  beak  persuades 
the  more  refractory.  But  if  he  finds  food,  such  as 
grain,  insects,  or  worms,  he  straightway  lifts  up  his 
voice  and  calls  the  hens  to  the  banquet.  He  himself, 
however,  magnificent  and  generous,  stands  in  the 
midst  of  the  throng  and  scratches  the  earth  to  turn 
up  the  worms  and  distribute  here  and  there  to  the 
invited  guests  the  dainties  thus  unearthed.  If  some 
greedy  hen  takes  more  than  her  share,  he  recalls  her 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  HEN  5 

to  a  sense  of  her  duty  to  the  community  and  repri- 
mands her  with  a  peck  on  the  head.  After  all  the 
others  have  eaten  their  fill  he  contents  himself  with 
their  leavings. 

"Plainer  in  costume,  the  hen,  the  joy  of  the  farm- 
er's wife,  trots  about  the  poultry-yard,  scratching 
and  pecking  and  cackling.  After  laying  an  egg  she 
proclaims  her  joy  with  an  enthusiasm  in  which  her 
companions  take  such  a  share  that  the  whole  estab- 
lishment bursts  into  a  general  lively  chorus  in  cele- 
bration of  the  happy  event.  She  has  a  habit  of 
squatting  down  in  a  dusty  and  sunny  corner  where 
she  flutters  her  wings  with  much  content  and  makes 
a  fine  shower  fall  between  her  feathers  to  relieve  the 
itching  that  torments  her.  Then  with  outstretched 
leg  and  wing  she  sleeps  away  the  hottest  hours  of  the 
day;  or,  without  disturbing  her  voluptuous  repose, 
spying  a  fly  on  the  wall,  she  snaps  it  up  with  one 
quick  dart  of  her  beak.  Like  the  cock,  she  swallows 
fine  gravel,  which  takes  the  place  of  teeth  and  serves 
to  grind  the  grain  in  her  gizzard.  She  drinks  by 
lifting  her  head  skyward  to  make  each  mouthful  go 
down.  She  sleeps  on  one  leg,  the  other  drawn  up 
under  her  plumage  and  her  head  hidden  under  her 
wing. ' ' 

"These  curious  particulars  of  the  hen's  habits, " 
said  Jules,  "are  quite  familiar  to  us  all;  we  see  them 
every  day  with  our  own  eyes.  One  only  is  new  to 
me :  hens,  you  say,  swallow  little  grains  of  sand  which 
take  the  place  of  teeth  for  grinding  the  food  in  the 
gizzard.  I  don't  know  what  the  gizzard  is,  and  I 


6  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

don't  see  how  little  stones  that  have  been  swallowed 
can  be  used  as  teeth. " 

"A  short  digression  on  the  digestive  organs  of 
birds/'  replied  Uncle  Paul,  "will  give  you  the  in- 
formation you  ask  for. 

"Birds  do  not  chew  their  food;  they  swallow  it 
just  as  they  seize  it,  or  nearly  so.  The  beak,  lacking 
teeth,  is  for  that  very  reason  unsuited  for  the  work 
of  grinding.  It  merely  seizes;  it  strikes,  picks  up, 
digs,  pierces,  breaks,  tears,  according  to  the  kind  of 
food  adapted  to  the  bird's  needs.  A  solid  horn  cov- 
ers the  bony  framework  of  the  two  mandibles  and 
makes  their  edges  sharp  and  very  well  fitted  for  dis- 
membering if  necessary,  but  not  for  triturating. 

"Rapacious  birds  that  feed  on  live  prey  have  the 
upper  mandible  short,  strong,  hooked,  and  terminat- 
ing in  a  sharp  point,  sometimes  with  serrate  edges. 
With  this  weapon  the  hunting  bird  kills  its  prey,  and 
tears  it  to  pieces  while  holding  it  with  its  vigorous 
talons  armed  with  sharp,  curved  nails. 

"Fish-eating  birds  that  tear  the  fish  to  pieces  in 
order  to  swallow  it  have  the  hooked  beak  of  the  ra- 
pacious birds ;  those  that  swallow  the  fish  whole  have 
a  straight  beak  with  long,  wide  mandibles.  Some 
throw  it  into  the  air  to  catch  it  in  their  beak  a  second 
time,  head  first,  and  swallow  it  without  any  difficulty 
in  spite  of  the  fin-bones,  which  lie  flat  from  front  to 
back  while  the  fish  is  passing  through  the  narrow  gul- 
let. A  great  fishing  bird,  the  pelican,  has  in  its  lower 
mandible  a  large  membranous  pouch,  a  sort  of  fish- 
pond, where  it  stores  the  fish  as  long  as  the  catch 


THE  COCK  AND  THE  HEN 


Pelican 


lasts.  Thus  stocked  up,  it  seeks  a  quiet  retreat  on 
some  ledge  of  rock  by  the  water-side  and  takes  out, 
one  by  one,  the  fish  packed  away  in  its  pouch,  to  feed 
on  them  at  leisure." 

"The  pelican  seems 
to  me  a  wise  fisher," 
remarked  Emile. 

"Without  losing  a 
minute  in  swallowing, 
it  begins  by  filling  the 
bag  under  its  beak. 
The  time  will  come 
later  for  looking  over 
the  catch  and  enjoy- 
ing the  fish  at  leisure.  I  should  like  to  see  it  on  its 
rocks  with  its  bag  full. ' ' 

"And  that  other  one,"  said  Jules,  "that  throws 
the  fish  it  has  caught  into  the  air  so  as  to  catch  it 
again  head  first  and  not  strangle  when  swallowing  it 
— is  not  that  one  just  as  clever?" 

"Each  kind  has  its  special  talent,"  replied  Uncle 
Paul,  "which  it  uses  with  the  tool  peculiar  to  the 
bird,  the  beak.  If  the  story  of  the  auxiliaries,  re- 
lated some  time  ago,  is  still  fresh  in  your  minds, 
you  will  remember  that  insect-eating  birds  have  the 
beak  slender  and  sometimes  very  long,  to  dig  into 
the  fissures  of  dead  wood  and  bark;  but  those  that 
catch  insects  on  the  fly,  as  the  swallow  and  the  fern- 
owl, have  the  beak  very  short  and  exceedingly  wide, 
so  that  the  game  pursued  is  caught  in  the  open  gullet 
and  becomes  coated  with  a  slimy  saliva  which  holds 


8  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

it  fast.  Finally,  I  will  remind  you  of  the  granivor- 
ous  birds — the  sparrow,  linnet,  greenfinch,  chaffinch, 
and  many  others.  All  these  birds,  whose  chief  food 
consists  of  grain,  have  the  beak  short,  thick,  pointed ; 
adapted,  in  fact,  to  the  picking  up  of  seeds  from  the 
ground,  freeing  them  from  their  husks,  and  breaking 
their  shells  to  obtain  the  kernel.  By  virtue  of  its 
strong  mandibles,  the  beak  of  the  hen  belongs  to  this 
last  category,  although  at  the  same  time  its  rather 
long,  sharp,  and  slightly  hooked  extremity  indicates 
carnivorous  tastes.  Such  a  beak  calls  not  only  for 
seeds,  but  also  for  small  prey,  such  as  insects  and 
worms. " 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   GIZZABD 

EARLY  all  the  higher  or  mammiferous  ani- 
mals,"  Uncle  Paul  continued,  "such  as  the 
dog,  cat,  wolf,  horse,  have  only  one  digestive  pouch 
— a  stomach — where  the  alimentary  substances  are 
dissolved  and  made  fluid,  so  as  to  enter  the  veins  and 
be  turned  into  blood,  by  which  all  parts  of  the  body 
are  nourished.  But  the  ox,  goat,  and  sheep — the 
cud-chewers,  in  short — have  four  digestive  cavities, 
which  I  will  tell  you  about  later.  I  will  tell  you  how, 
in  the  pasture,  these  animals  hastily  swallow  almost 
unchewed  grass  and  put  it  by  in  a  large  reservoir 
called  a  paunch,  from  which  it  comes  up  again  after- 
ward in  a  season  of  repose,  to  be  rechewed  at  leisure 
in  small  mouthf  uls. 

"Well,  birds  are  fashioned  in  a  similar  way,  as  far 
as  eating  is  concerned.  Not  being  able  to  chew,  as 
they  have  no  teeth,  they  swallow  their  food  without 
any  preparation,  nearly  as  the  beak  has  seized  it, 
and  amass  a  quantity  of  it  in  a  spacious  stomach,  just 
as  the  ox  does  in  his  paunch.  From  this  reservoir 
the  food  passes,  little  by  little,  into  two  other  diges- 
tive cavities,  one  of  which  immerses  it  in  a  liquid 
calculated  to  dissolve  it,  and  the  other  grinds  and 
triturates  it  better  than  the  best  pair  of  jaws  could 

9 


10  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

do.  There  takes  place  a  kind  of  chewing,  it  is  true, 
only  the  food,  instead  of  returning  to  the  beak,  where 
teeth  are  lacking  for  its  thorough  mastication,  con- 
tinues its  journey,  and  on  the  way  comes  to  the  tri- 
turating machine.  Birds,  then,  are  generally  pro- 
vided with  three  digestive  cavities. 

"The  first  is  the  crop,  situated  just  at  the  base  of 
the  neck.  It  is  a  bag  with  thin  and  flexible  walls,  its 
size  proportioned  to  the  resistant  nature  of  the  food 
eaten.  It  is  very  large  in  birds  that  feed  on  grain, 
especially  the  hen,  and  is  medium-sized,  or  even 
wholly  wanting,  in  those  that  live  on  prey,  which  is 
much  easier  to  digest  than  dry  and  hard  seeds.  In 
the  crop,  the  food  swallowed  in  haste  remains  hours 
and  even  days,  as  in  a  reservoir;  there  it  softens 
somewhat,  and  is  then  submitted  to  the  action  of  the 
other  digestive  pouches.  The  crop  corresponds  in 
a  certain  sense  to  the  bag  in  which  the  pelican  stores 
up  his  fishing ;  it  represents  also  the  first  stomach  of 
the  ox  and  the  other  cud-chewers  or  ruminants. 

"Next  to  the  crop  is  a  second  enlargement,  called 
the  succenturiate  ventricle,  of  small  capacity  but  re- 
markable for  a  liquid  of  a  bitter  taste  that  oozes  in 
fine  drops  through  its  walls  and  moistens  the  food 
as  it  passes.  This  liquid  is  a  digestive  juice ;  it  has 
the  property  of  dissolving  the  alimentary  substances 
as  soon  as  trituration  has  done  the  greater  part  of 
the  work.  The  food  does  not  remain  in  this  second 
stomach;  it  merely  passes  through  to  become  im- 
pregnated with  the  digestive  juice. 

"The  third  and  last  stomach  is  known  as  the  giz- 


THE  GIZZARD  11 

zard.  It  is  rounded  and  is  slightly  flattened  on  both 
sides,  like  a  watch-case,  and  is  composed — especially 
in  birds  that  live  on  grain — of  a  very  thick,  fleshy 
wall,  lined  on  the  inside  with  a  kind  of  hard  and  tena- 
cious leather  which  protects  the  organ  from  attri- 
tion. Finally,  it  is  to  be  noted  that  at  the  same  time 
the  bird  is  swallowing  grain  it  takes  care  also  to 
swallow  a  little  gravel,  some  very  small  stones  which, 
away  down  in  the  gizzard,  will  perform  the  office  of 
teeth. " 

"I  know  what  the  gizzard  is,"  volunteered  Emile. 
*  '  When  they  are  cleaning  a  chicken  to  cook,  they  take 
out  of  the  body  something  round  that  they  split  in 
two  with  a  knife ;  then  they  throw  away  a  thick  skin 
all  wrinkled  and  stuffed  with  grains  of  sand,  and  the 
rest  is  put  back  into  the'  chicken. ' ' 

' '  Yes,  that  is  the  gizzard, ' '  said  Uncle  Paul.  ' '  Let 
us  complete  these  ideas  got  from  cooking.  The 
bird,  not  having  in  its  beak  the  molars  necessary  for 
grinding,  as  in  a  mill,  the  seeds  that  are  hard  to 
crush,  supplies  its  gizzard  with  artificial  teeth,  which 
are  renewed  at  each  repast ;  that  is  to  say,  it  swallows 
little  pebbles.  The  grain,  softened  in  the  crop  and 
moistened  with  the  digestive  juice  during  its  pas- 
sage through  the  succenturiate  ventricle,  reaches  the 
gizzard  mixed  with  the  little  stopes  that  are  to  aid 
the  triturating  action.  The  work  then  performed  is 
easy  to  understand.  If  you  pressed  in  your  palm 
a  handful  of  wheat  mixed  with  gravel,  and  if  your 
fingers,  by  continual  movement,  made  the  two  kinds 
of  particles  rub  vigorously  against  each  other,  is  it 


12  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

not  true  that  the  wheat  would  soon  be  reduced  to 
powder?  Such  is  the  action  of  the  gizzard.  Its 
strong,  fleshy  walls  contract  powerfully  and  knead 
their  contents  of  sand  and  seeds  without  suffering 
damage  themselves  from  the  friction,  because  of  the 
tough  skin  that  lines  their  inside  and  protects  them 
from  the  roughness  of  the  gravel.  In  such  a  mill  the 
hardest  kernels  are  soon  reduced  to  a  sort  of  soup. 

"To  make  you  understand  the  prodigious  power 
of  the  gizzard,  I  cannot  do  better  than  relate  to  you 
certain  experiments  performed  by  a  learned  Italian, 
the  abbot  Spallanzani.  A  century  ago  the  celebrated 
abbot,  while  pursuing  his  researches  on  the  natural 
history  of  animals,  caused  a  number  of  hens  to  swal- 
low some  little  glass  balls.  *  These  balls,'  he  said, 
'were  sufficiently  tough  not  to  break  when  thrown 
forcibly  on  to  the  ground.  After  remaining  three 
hours  in  the  hen's  gizzard  they  were  for  the  most 
part  reduced  to  very  tiny  pieces  with  nothing  sharp 
about  them,  all  their  edges  having  been  blunted  as 
if  they  had  passed  through  a  mill.  I  noticed  also 
that  the  longer  these  little  glass  balls  remained  in 
the  stomach,  the  finer  the  powder  to  which  they  were 
reduced.  After  a  few  hours  they  were  broken  into 
a  multitude  of  vitreous  particles  no  larger  than 
grains  of  sand.'  " 

"A  stomach  that  can  grind  glass  balls  to  powder," 
commented  Jules, ' '  is  certainly  a  first-rate  mill. J ' 

"You  shall  hear  something  still  more  remark- 
able, ' '  returned  his  uncle.  ' '  Wait.  '  As  these  balls, ' 
continued  the  abbot, '  were  polished  and  smooth,  they 


THE  GIZZARD  13 

could  not  create  any  kind  of  disturbance  in  the  giz- 
zard. '  So  he  was  curious  to  see  what  would  happen 
if  sharp  and  cutting  bodies  were  introduced.  'We 
know,'  he  says,  'how  easily  little  pieces  of  glass, 
broken  up  by  pounding,  tear  the  flesh.  Well,  hav- 
ing shattered  a  pane  of  glass,  I  selected  some  pieces 
about  the  size  of  a  pea  and  wrapped  them  in  a  play- 
ing card  so  that  they  would  not  lacerate  the  gullet 
in  their  passage.  Thus  prepared,  I  made  a  cock 
swallow  them,  well  knowing  that  the  covering  of  card 
would  break  on  its  entrance  into  the  stomach  and 
leave  the  glass  free  to  act  with  all  its  points  and 
sharp  edges.' 

"With  all  those  little  pieces  of  glass  in  its  stom- 
ach," said  Jules,  "the  bird  must  surely  have  died." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  The  bird  would  have  come  out 
all  right  if  the  experimenter  had  not  sacrificed  it  to 
see  the  result.  The  cock  was  killed  at  the  end  of 
twenty  hours.  'All  the  pieces  of  glass  were  in  the 
gizzard,'  the  abbot  tells  us,  'but  all  their  sharp  edges 
and  points  had  disappeared  so  completely  that,  hav- 
ing put  these  fragments  on  my  palm,  I  could  rub 
them  hard  with  the  other  hand  without  inflicting  the 
slightest  wound. 

"  'The  reader,'  he  goes  on,  'must  be  curious  to 
learn  the  effect  produced  on  the  gizzard  by  these 
sharp-pointed  bodies  that  rolled  around  there  un- 
ceasingly until  they  lost  their  keen  edges  and  sharp 
points.  Opening  the  cock's  gizzard,  I  examined  mi- 
nutely the  inside  skin  after  having  well  washed  and 
cleaned  it.  I  even  separated  it  from  the  gizzard, 


14  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

which  is  done  without  difficulty,  and  thus  it  was  easy 
to  scrutinize  it  as  closely  as  I  wished.  Well,  after 
all  my  pains  I  found  it  perfectly  intact,  without  a 
tear  or  cut,  without  even  the  slightest  scratch.  The 
skin  appeared  to  me  absolutely  the  same  as  that  of 
the  cocks  that  had  not  swallowed  glass.'  " 

"So  the  bird  that  is  made  to  swallow  pieces  of 
broken  glass, "  said  Jules,  "  grinds  them  up  without 
injury  and  without  even  a  scratch,  while  we  could 
not  so  much  as  handle  this  dangerous  stuff  with  the 
tips  of  our  fingers  without  wounding  ourselves. 
This  power  of  the  gizzard  is  really  inconceivable." 

"What  follows  is  still  more  surprising, "  resumed 
Uncle  Paul.  "Spallanzani  continues:  'The  experi- 
ments with  glass  not  having  done  the  birds  any  harm, 
I  performed  two  others  that  were  much  more  dan- 
gerous. In  a  leaden  ball  I  placed  twelve  large  steel 
needles  so  that  they  stuck  out  of  the  ball  more  than 
half  a  centimeter,  and  I  made  a  turkey  swallow  this 
ball,  bristling  with  points  and  wrapped  in  a  card ;  and 
it  kept  the  ball  in  its  stomach  a  day  and  a  half.  Dur- 
ing this  time  the  bird  showed  not  the  slightest  dis- 
comfort, and  in  fact  there  could  have  been  none,  for 
on  killing  the  bird  I  found  that  its  stomach  had  not 
received  the  slightest  wound  from  this  barbarous  de- 
vice. All  the  needles  were  broken  off  and  separated 
from  the  leaden  ball,  two  of  them  being  still  in  the 
gizzard,  their  points  greatly  blunted,  while  the  other 
ten  had  disappeared,  ejected  with  the  excrement. 

"  'Finally,  I  fixed  in  a  leaden  ball  twelve  little 
steel  lancets,  very  sharp  and  cutting,  and  I  made 


THE  GIZZARD  15 

another  turkey  swallow  the  terrible  pill.  It  re- 
mained sixteen  hours  in  the  gizzard,  after  which  I 
opened  the  bird  and  found  only  the  ball  minus  the 
lancets;  these  had  all  been  broken,  three  of  them, 
their  points  and  edges  entirely  blunted,  being  found 
in  the  intestines,  the  nine  others  having  been  ejected. 
As  for  the  gizzard,  it  showed  no  trace  of  a  wound. ' 

"You  see,  my  little  friends,  a  bird's  gizzard  is  the 
most  wonderful  organ  of  trituration  in  the  world. 
What  are  the  best-equipped  jaws  in  comparison  with 
this  strong  pouch  which,  without  suffering  so  much 
as  a  scratch,  reduces  glass  to  powder  and  breaks  and 
blunts  steel  needles  and  lancets?  You  can  under- 
stand now  with  what  ease  the  hardest  seeds  can  be 
ground  when  the  gizzard  of  the  granivorous  bird 
presses  and  rolls  them  pell-mell  with  small  stones." 

"Where  glass  and  steel  are  broken  up,"  said 
Emile,  "grain  ought  to  turn  to  flour  as  well  as  in  a 
mill." 


CHAPTEE  III 

THE   CHIEF   KINDS   OF   POULTRY 

"  T^VIFFEEENT  kinds  of  poultry,  the  originals  of 
JL/  our  domestic  species,  are  living  to  this  day  in 
a  wild  state  in  the  forests  of  Asia,  notably  in  India, 
and  in  the  Philippine  Islands  and  Java.  The  most 

noteworthy  is  the 
Bankiva  or  red  jun- 

plumage,  and  habits 
the  male  bird  bears 
a  striking  resem- 
blance to  the  com- 
mon rooster  of  our 

Red  jungie  Fowl  poultry-yards ;     but 

in  size  it  is  smaller 

even  than  the  partridge.  It  has  a  scalloped  red 
comb,  a  tail  of  arched  plumage,  and  a  neck  orna- 
mented with  a  falling  tippet  of  bright,  golden-red 
feathers.  This  graceful  little  cock,  irritable  and  full 
of  fight,  has  the  habits  of  ours.  He  struts  proudly  at 
the  head  of  his  flock  of  hens,  over  whose  safety  he 
watches  with  extreme  care.  If  hunters  range  the 
forest,  or  if  some  dog  prowls  in  the  neighborhood,  the 
vigilant  bird,  quick  to  perceive,  suspects  an  enemy. 
He  immediately  flies  to  a  high  branch  and  thence 
gives  forth  a  cry  of  alarm  to  warn  the  hens,  which 

16 


THE  CHIEF  KINDS  OF  POULTRY  17 

hastily  conceal  themselves  under  the  leaves  or  crouch 
in  the  hollows  of  trees  and  wait  motionless  until  the 
danger  is  past.  To  get  within  gun-shot  of  these 
birds  is  well-nigh  impossible,  and  to  capture  them 
one  must  have  recourse  to  the  same  snares  one  uses 
for  catching  larks." 

"A  fowl  smaller  than  a  partridge,  and  that  they 
catch  in  the  woods  with  snares  for  larks, "  remarked 
Jules,  "ought  to  be  a  very  pretty  bird,  but  not  of 
much  use  if  raised  in  poultry-yards.  Does  our  poul- 
try come  from  such  a  small  kind  as  that!" 

"It  certainly  comes  either  from  the  Bankiva  fowl 
or  from  other  kinds  just  as  small  that  live  in  a  wild 
state  in  the  forests  of  Asia ;  but  when  and  how  the 
hen  and  the  cock  became  domesticated  is  wholly  un- 
known. From  the  dawn  of  history  man  has  been  in 
possession  of  the  barnyard  fowl,  at  least  in  Asia, 
whence  later  the  species  came  to  us  already  domes- 
ticated. During  long  centuries,  improved  by  our 
care,  which  assures  it  abundant  food  and  comfortable 
shelter,  the  original  small  species  has  produced  nu- 
merous varieties  differing  much  in  size  and  plumage. 
They  are  classed  in  three  groups :  the  small,  the  me- 
dium, and  the  large. 

"To  the  first  group  belongs  the  bantam  or  little 
English  fowl,  about  the  size  of  a  partridge.  It  is  a 
beautiful  bird  with  short  legs  that  let  the  tips  of  the 
wings  drag  on  the  ground,  quick  movements,  gentle 
and  tame  habits.  Its  eggs,  proportioned  to  the  small 
size  of  the  hen,  weigh  scarcely  thirty  grams  apiece, 
while  those  of  other  hens  weigh  from  sixty  to  ninety 


18  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

grams  each.  These  pretty  little  pullets  are  raised 
rather  as  ornaments  to  the  poultry -yard  than  for  the 
sake  of  their  diminutive  eggs." 

" These  little  fowl,"  observed  Louis,  "look  from 
their  size  like  the  primitive  kind." 

"Yes,  it  was  about  like  that  they  looked  when  man 
took  it  into  his  head  to  tame  the  wild. fowl.  In  the 
poultry-yards  of  those  times  lived,  not  the  large  spe- 
cies of  our  day,  but  birds  as  small  in  body  and  as 
quick  on  the  wing  as  the  partridge.  I  leave  you  to 
imagine  what  care  and  vigilance  were  necessary  in 
order  not  to  frighten  these  timid  little  fowl  and  cause 
them  to  go  back  to  the  woods  that  they  still  remem- 
bered." 

"It  must  have  been  as  much  trouble,"  said  Louis, 
"as  it  would  be  for  us  to  tame  a  covey  of  partridges. 
Such  an  undertaking  would  not  be  easy.  We  are  a 
long  way  from  those  first  attempts  at  domestication 
with  our  hens  of  to-day,  so  tame,  so  importunate 
even,  that  they  come  boldly  and  pick  up  crumbs  under 
the  very  table." 

"The  common  poultry,  that  which  stocks  the 
greater  number  of  farms,  belongs  to  the  medium- 
sized  breeds.  Its  plumage  is  of  all  colors,  from 
white  to  red  and  black.  Its  head  is  small  and  orna- 
mented with  a  red  comb,  sometimes  single,  some- 
times double,  coquettishly  thrown  to  one  side.  The 
cock,  for  its  proud  bearing  and  magnificent  plumage, 
has  no  equal  among  the  other  species.  The  common 
fowl  is  the  easiest  to  keep,  for  its  activity  permits 
it  to  seek  and  find  for  itself,  by  scratching  in  the 


THE  CHIEF  KINDS  OF  POULTRY  19 

ground,  a  great  part  of  its  food  in  the  form  of  seeds 
and  worms.  It  may  be  found  fault  with  for  its  wan- 
dering proclivities,  favored  by  a  strong  wing  which 
it  avails  itself  of  to  fly  over  hedges  and  fences,  to 
go  and  devastate  the  neighboring  gardens. 

"  Among  the  other  medium-sized  species  which, 
associated  with  the  common  fowl,  are  found  in  poul- 
try-yards as  ornaments  rather  than  as  sources  of 
profit,  I  will  name  the  following: 

1 '  First,  the  Paduan  fowl,  recognizable  by  its  rich 
plumage  and  particularly  by  the  thick  tuft  of  feath- 
ers that  adorns  its  head.  This  beautiful  headdress 
of  fine  plumage,  so  proudly  spread  out  in  fine 
weather,  is,  when' once  wet  by  rain,  nothing  but  an 
ungraceful  rag,  heavy  and  tangled,  which  tires  the 
bird  and  makes  the  rustic  life  of  the  poultry-yard  im- 
possible as  far  as  it  is  concerned. 

"The  Houdan  fowl  wears  a  thickly  tufted  top-knot 
which  is  thrown  back  over  the  nape  of  the  neck. 
Sometimes  this  headdress  covers  the  eyes  so  com- 
pletely that  the  bird  cannot  see  in  front  nor  sidewise, 
but  only  on  the  ground,  which  makes  it  uneasy  at  the 
slightest  noise.  The  plumage  is  speckled  black  and 
white,  with  glints  of  purple  and  green.  The  cheeks 
and  the  base  of  the  beak  are  draped  with  little  up- 
turned feathers.  Each  foot  has  five  toes  instead  of 
four,  the  usual  number — not  counting  the  cock's 
spur,  which  is  simply  a  horn,  a  fighting  weapon,  and 
not  a  toe.  Three  of  the  toes  point  forward  and  two 
backward. 

"The  fowl  of  la  Fleche,  so  renowned  for  the  deli- 


20  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

cacy  of  its  flesh  and  its  aptness  for  fattening,  has  no 
crest  and  is  long-legged,  with  black  plumage  of  green 
and  purple  luster.  The  legs  are  blue  and  the  comb 
rises  in  two  little  red  horns. 

' '  Similar  but  better  developed  horns,  accompanied 
by  a  thick  headdress  of  feathers,  adorn  the  Creve- 
coeur  species.  The  hen  is  a  beautiful  black ;  the  cock 
wears,  against  body  plumage  of  the  same  dark  color, 
a  rich  gold  or  silver  tippet. 

"  Finally,  to  the  large  species  belongs  the  Cochin- 
China,  an  ungraceful  bird,  with  very  strong  body  and 
shapeless  and  disordered  plumage,  generally  reddish 
white.  Its  eggs  are  brownish  in  color. ' ' 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   EGG 

"T  II  THEN  moistening  your  slices  of  bread  with 
V  V  egg,  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  examine  a 
little  the  structure  of  what  furnishes  your  repast? 
I  think  not.  To-day  I  am  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing about  this :  I  will  show  yon  in  detail  this  won- 
der called  an  egg. 

*  *  First,  let  us  examine  the  shell.  In  hens '  eggs  it 
is  all  white,  as  also  in  those  of  ducks  and  geese. 
Turkeys '  eggs  are  speckled  with  a  multitude  of  little 
pale  red  spots.  But  it  is  particularly  the  eggs  of 
undomesticated  birds  that  are  remarkable  for  their 
coloring.  There  are  sky-blue  ones,  such  as  those  of 
certain  blackbirds ;  rose  color  for  certain  warblers ; 
and  somber  green  with  a  tinge  of  bronze  is  found,  for 
example,  in  the  eggs  of  the  nightingale.  The  color- 
ing is  sometimes  uniform,  sometimes  enhanced  by 
darker  spots,  or  by  a  haphazard  sprinkling  of  pig- 
ment, or  by  odd  markings  resembling  some  sort 
of  illegible  handwriting.  Many  rapacious  birds, 
chiefly  those  of  the  sea,  lay  eggs  with  large  fawn- 
colored  spots  that  make  them  look  like  the  pelt  of  a 
leopard.  I  will  not  dwell  longer  on  this  subject,  in- 
teresting though  it  may  be,  as  in  telling  you  the 

21 


22  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

story  of  the  auxiliary  birds  I  have  already  described 
the  eggs  of  the  principal  kinds. ' ' 

"I  have  taken  care,"  interposed  Jules,  "to  remem- 
ber the  curious  variety  of  coloring  that  eggs  have. 
I  recall  very  distinctly  the  nightingale's,  green  like 
an  olive ;  the  goldfinch's,  spotted  with  reddish  brown, 
especially  at  the  larger  end;  the  crow's,  bluish  green 
with  brown  spots ;  and  so  many  others  that  I  hesitate 
to  say  which  are  my  favorites,  so  nearly  equal  are 
they  in  beauty." 

"Let  us  learn  now  about  the  nature  of  the  shell," 
his  uncle  continued.  "The  substance  of  the  shell  is, 
in  the  hen's  egg,  as  white  as  marble ;  its  own  color  not 
being  disguised  by  any  foreign  pigment.  This  pure 
white  and  its  other  characteristics,  hardness  and 
clean  fracture,  do  they  not  tell  you  of  what  sub- 
stance the  shell  is  composed?" 

"Either  appearances  deceive  me  greatly,"  an- 
swered Louis,  "or  the  shell  is  simply  made  of 
stone." 

"Yes,  my  friend,  it  is  indeed  of  stone,  but  stone 
selected  with  exquisite  care  and  refined  as  it  were, 
in  the  bird's  body. 

"In  its  nature  the  eggshell  does  not  differ  from 
common  building-stone ;  or  rather,  on  account  of  its 
extreme  purity,  it  does  not  differ  from  the  chalk  that 
you  use  on  the  blackboard,  or  from  the  magnificent 
white  marble  that  the  sculptor  seeks  for  the  master- 
pieces of  his  chisel.  Building-stone,  marble,  and 
chalk  are  at  bottom  the  same  substance,  which  is 
called  lime,  limestone,  or  carbonate  of  lime.  The  dif- 


THE  EGG  23 

ferences,  great  as  they  may  be,  have  to  do  with  the 
state  of  purity  and  degree  of  consistency.  That 
which  building-stone  contains  in  a  state  of  impurity 
from  other  ingredients  is  contained  also  in  white 
marble  and  chalk,  but  free  from  any  admixture. 
Thus  in  its  nature  the  eggshell  is  identical  with  chalk 
and  marble,  harder  than  the  first,  less  hard  than  the 
second,  being  between  the  two  in  an  intermediate 
state  of  pure  lime.  To  clothe  the  egg,  therefore, 
with  a  solid  envelope,  the  hen  and  all  birds  without 
exception  use  the  same  material  as  the  sculptor 
works  with  in  his  studio  and  the  scholar  uses  on  the 
blackboard. 

"Now,  no  animal  creates  matter;  none  makes  its 
body,  with  all  that  comes  from  it,  out  of  nothing. 
The  bird  does  not  find  within  itself  the  material  for 
the  eggshell;  it  gets  it  from  outside  with  its  food. 
Amid  the  grain  that  is  thrown  to  her  the  hen  finds  lit- 
tle bits  of  stone  left  there  through  imperfect  clean- 
ing; she  swallows  them  without  hesitation,  knowing 
full  well,  however,  that  they  are  little  stones  and  not 
kernels  of  wheat.  That  is  not  enough ;  you  will  see 
her  all  day  long  scratching  and  pecking  here  and 
there  in  the  poultry-yard.  Now  and  then  she  digs  up 
some  worm,  her  great  delicacy,  and  from  time  to  time 
some  fragment  of  limestone,  which  she  turns  to  ac- 
count with  as  much  satisfaction  as  if  she  had  found  a 
plump  insect." 

"I  have  often  seen  hens  swallowing  little  stones 
like  that,"  remarked  Emile.  "I  thought  it  was  all 
their  own  carelessness  or  gluttonous  haste,  but  now 


24  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

I  begin  to  suspect  the  truth.  Would  not  those  little 
stones  be  useful  in  making  the  eggshell?" 

"  You  are  right,  my  little  friend.  The  particles  of 
lime  swallowed  with  the  food  are  converted  into  a 
fine  pap,  dissolved  by  the  digestive  action  of  the 
stomach.  By  a  rigorous  sorting  the  pure  lime  is 
separated  from  the  rest,  and  it  is  made  into  a  sort  of 
chalk  soup  which  at  the  right  moment  oozes  around 
the  egg  and  hardens  into  a  shell.  By  swallowing  lit- 
tle particles  of  lime,  the  hen,  as  you  see,  lays  by  ma- 
terials for  her  eggshell.  If  these  materials  were 
wanting,  if  the  food  given  her  did  not  include  lime,  if, 
imprisoned  in  a  cage,  she  could  not  procure  carbon- 
ate of  lime  for  herself  by  pecking  in  the  ground,  she 
would  lay  eggs  without  any  shell  and  simply  cov- 
ered with  a  flabby  skin." 

"  Those  soft  eggs  that  hens  sometimes  lay  come 
then  from  lack  of  lime?"  asked  Louis. 

"They  either  come  from  the  bird's  not  having  had 
the  necessary  carbonate  of  lime  in  her  food  or  in  the 
earth  she  pecked,  or  else  her  bad  state  of  health  did 
not  permit  the  transformation  of  the  little  stones  into 
that  chalky  pap  which  molds  itself  around  the  egg 
and  becomes  the  shell.  In  countries  where  carbon- 
ate of  lime  is  scarce  in  the  soil,  or  even  totally  lack- 
ing, it  is  the  custom  to  break  up  the  eggshells  and  mix 
the  coarse  powder  in  the  fowl's  food.  It  is  a  very 
judicious  way  of  giving  the  hen  in  the  most  conven- 
ient form,  the  stony  matter  necessary  for  the  perfect 
formation  of  the  egg." 

"Sometimes,"  observed  Louis,  "we  find  on  the 


THE  EGG  25 

dunghill  eggs  of  a  queer  shape  and  as  soft  as  hens* 
eggs  without  the  shell.  Instead  of  a  chicken,  a  snake 
comes  out  of  them.  They  say  they  are  laid  by  young 
cocks. ' ' 

"You  are  repeating  now  one  of  the  false  notions 
prevalent  in  the  country — a  foolish  notion  springing 
from  a  basis  of  actual  fact.  It  is  perfectly  true  that 
eggs  soft,  rather  long,  almost  cylindrical,  and  of  the 
same  size  at  both  ends,  may  be  turned  up  by  the  fork 
as  it  stirs  the  warm  manure  of  a  dunghill.  It  is  also 
perfectly  true  that  from  these  eggs  snakes  are 
hatched,  to  the  great  surprise  of  the  innocent  person 
who  thinks  he  sees  there  the  product  of  some  witch- 
craft. What  is  false  is  the  supposed  origin  of  the 
egg.  Never,  never  has  the  cock,  be  he  young  or  old, 
the  faculty  reserved  exclusively  for  the  hen,  the  fac- 
ulty of  laying.  Those  eggs  found  in  dunghills,  and 
remarkable  for  their  strange  shape,  do  not  come 
from  fowl ;  they  are  simply  the  eggs  of  a  serpent,  of 
an  inoffensive  snake  which,  when  opportunity  offers, 
buries  its  laying  in  the  warm  mass  of  a  dunghill  to 
aid  the  hatching.  It  is  quite  natural,  then,  that  from 
serpents'  eggs  serpents  should  hatch." 

"The  ridiculous  marvel  of  the  supposed  cock's 
eggs,"  returned  Louis,  "thus  becomes  a  very  simple 
thing;  but  one  must  first  know  that  serpents  lay 
eggs." 

"Henceforth  you  will  know  that  not  only  serpents 
but  all  reptiles  lay  eggs  just  as  birds  do.  Snakes' 
eggs  are  flabby,  and  for  covering  have  only  a  sort  of 
skin  resembling  wet  parchment.  Moreover,  they  are 


26  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

long  in  shape,  which  is  far  from  being  the  usual  form. 
But  the  eggs  of  some  reptiles,  notably  of  lizards, 
have  the  shell  firm  and  of  the  fine  oval  shape  peculiar 
to  birds '  eggs.  If  you  ever  encounter  in  holes  in  the 
wall,  or  in  dry  sand  well  exposed  to  the  sun,  little 
eggs,  all  white,  with  shell  as  fine  as  a  little  canary 
bird's,  do  not  cry  out  at  the  strangeness  of  your  dis- 
covery ;  you  will  simply  have  come  across  the  eggs  of 
a  gray  lizard,  the  usual  inhabitant  of  old  walls. ' ' 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   EGG 
(Continued) 

T  ET  us  return  to  the  hen.  We  know  the  calcare- 
I  1  ous  nature  of  the  shell;  now  let  us  look  at  the 
structure.  Open  your  eyes  wide  and  look  atten- 
tively; you  will  see  on  the  shell,  chiefly  at  the  large 
end,  a  multitude  of  tiny  dents  such  as  might  be  made 
by  the  point  of  a  fine  needle.  Each  of  these  dents 
corresponds  to  an  invisible  hole  that  pierces  the  shell 
through  and  through  and  establishes  communication 
between  the  interior  and  the  exterior.  These  holes, 
much  too  small  to  let  out  the  liquid  contents  of  the 
egg,  nevertheless  suffice  both  for  the  emission  of  hu- 
mid vapors,  which  are  dissipated  outside  the  shell, 
and  for  the  admission  of  air,  which  penetrates  within 
and  replaces  the  evaporated  humidity. 

"The  presence  of  these  innumerable  openings  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  the  awakening  and  keeping 
up  of  life  in  the  future  chicken.  Every  living  thing 
breathes,  and  all  life  springs  into  being  and  con- 
tinues through  the  action  of  air.  The  seed  that  ger- 
minates under  ground  must  have  air.  Planted 
too  deep,  it  perishes  sooner  or  later  without  being 
able  to  rise,  because  the  thick  bed  of  earth  prevents 

27 


28  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  air  from  reaching  it.  The  egg  must  have  air  so 
that  its  substance,  gently  warmed  by  the  brooding 
mother  hen,  may  spring  into  life  and  become  a  little 
chicken;  it  must  have  it  continually,  shut  up  as  it  is 
in  its  shell.  Thanks  to  the  openings  with  which  the 
shell  is  riddled,  the  air  penetrates  sufficiently  to  meet 
the  needs  of  respiration ;  it  quickens  the  substance  of 
the  egg  and  the  little  being  slowly  forming  within." 

"One  might  say,"  Emile  here  put  in,  "that  these 
holes  are  so  many  little  windows  through  which  air 
reaches  the  bird  in  its  narrow  cell  of  the  egg. ' ' 

"These  windows,  as  Emile  calls  them,"  his  uncle 
went  on,  "deserve  our  attention  from  another  point 
of  view.  Eggs  are  a  precious  alimentary  provision ; 
the  difficulty  is  to  keep  them  for  any  length  of  time. 
If  they  get  too  old  they  spoil  and  give  out  then  an 
infectious,  bad  smell.  Well,  then,  what  causes  the 
eggs  to  spoil  and  changes  them  to  repulsive-smelling 
filth  is  again  air — the  same  air  so  indispensable  to 
the  formation  of  the  chicken.  That  which  gives  life 
to  the  egg  under  the  heat  of  the  brooding  hen  brings 
destruction  just  as  quickly  when  the  warmth  is  want- 
ing. If,  then,  it  is  proposed  to  preserve  in  a  state 
of  freshness  as  long  as  possible  eggs  destined  for 
food,  it  is  necessary  to  prevent  the  access  of  air  into 
their  interior,  which  is  done  by  closing  the  openings 
in  the  shell.  Several  means  may  be  employed. 
Sometimes  eggs  are  plunged  for  a  moment  into 
melted  grease,  from  which  they  are  drawn  out  cov- 
ered with  a  coating  that  obstructs  all  the  orifices; 
sometimes  they  are  varnished.  The  simplest 


THE  EGG  29 

method  is  to  keep  them  in  water  in  which  a  little  lime 
has  been  dissolved.  This  dissolved  lime  deposits  it- 
self on  the  shell  and  closes  the  openings.  These  pre- 
cautions taken,  the  air  can  no  longer  find  a  passage  to 
penetrate  into  the  interior  and  the  eggs  are  pre- 
served in  good  condition  much  longer  than  they 
would  be  without  this  preparation.  Nevertheless 
they  always  spoil  in  the  long  run." 

t  i  If  I  have  properly  understood  what  you  have  just 
told  us  about  the  need  of  air  for  the  awakening  of 
life,"  remarked  Jules,  "eggs  thus  coated  with  var- 
nish or  lime  will  not  hatch  when  under  the  brooding 
hen?" 

1  'Evidently  not.  Eendered  impervious  to  air  by 
the  varnish,  lime,  grease,  or  what  not,  the  eggs  might 
remain  indefinitely  under  the  brooding  hen  without 
ever  coming  to  life ;  for  want  of  the  quickening  action 
of  the  air,  life  would  no  more  awaken  in  them  than 
in  simple  stones.  You  understand,  then,  that  the 
method  of  preservation  by  means  of  a  coating  that 
closes  the  orifices  of  the  shell  must  only  be  employed 
for  eggs  destined  for  food,  and  that  care  must  be 
taken  not  to  make  use  of  it  in  those  destined  for 
hatching. 

"But  this  is  enough  about  the  outside  of  the  egg. 
Now  let  us  break  the  shell.  What  do  we  find  within? 
We  find  a  delicate  membrane,  a  supple  skin  which 
lines  the  whole  of  the  shell  and  forms  a  kind  of  bag, 
without  any  opening,  filled  with  the  white  and  yolk. 
When  by  some  accident  the  limy  coating  is  lacking, 
this  membrane  constitutes  the  sole  covering  of  the 


30  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

egg — a  covering  as  soft  as  thin  parchment  soaked  in 
water. " 

"Then  soft  eggs  without  any  shell  have  this  mem- 
brane all  exposed  V9  queried  Jules. 

"  Exactly.  A  new-laid  egg  has  its  shell  completely 
filled;  but  it  soon  loses  some  of  its  humidity,  which 
evaporates  through  the  orifices  in  the  shell.  A  void 
is  then  created  in  the  interior,  near  the  large  end, 
where  the  evaporation  is  most  rapid.  At  this  end, 
therefore,  *the  membrane  detaches  itself  from  the 
shell  that  it  lined  and  draws  further  in  with  the  con- 
tents of  the  egg  shrunk  by  the  evaporation.  Thus  is. 
produced  at  the  large  end  a  cavity  which  the  air  from 
outside  enters  and  which  for  this  reason  is  called  the 
air-chamber.  This  chamber,  wanting  at  first,  grows 
little  by  little  according  to  the  space  left  by  the  mois- 
ture's evaporation;  consequently,  the  older  the  egg, 
the  larger  the  space.  If  the  egg  is  placed  under  the 
hen,  the  heat  of  the  mother  aids  evaporation  and 
causes  the  quick  formation  of  the  air-chamber. 
There  gathers,  as  in  a  reservoir,  the  supply  of  air 
needed  for  the  vitality  of  the  egg  and  the  respiration 
of  the  coming  bird.  So  the  empty  space  at  the  large 
end  is  a  respiratory  storehouse. 

"When  you  eat  an  egg  boiled  in  the  shell,  break  it 
carefully  at  the  large  end.  If  the  egg  is  very  fresh 
the  white  will  be  seen  immediately  under  the  shell 
without  any  empty  space ;  but  if  it  is  old  you  will  find 
an  unoccupied  hollow  of  varying  size.  That  is  the 
air-chamber.  According  to  its  size  you  can  judge  of 
the  egg's  freshness.  But  it  would  be  more  desirable 


THE  EGG  31 

to  be  able  to  recognize,  before  using  and  breaking  it, 
whether  an  egg  is  fresh  or  stale.    I  have  seen  the 
following    means    used,    which    would    seem    very 
strange  if  what  I  have  just  told  you  about  the  air- 
chamber  did  not  furnish  the  explanation.     The  tip  of 
the  tongue  is  applied  to  the  large  end.    If  the  egg  is 
fresh  a  slight  impression  of  coolness  can  be  felt;  if 
stale,  the  tongue  remains  warm.     This  little  mystery 
is  based  on  the  different  manner  of  behavior  of  li- 
quids and  gases  when  brought  into  contact  with  heat. 
Water   and   liquids   in   general   take   away   rather 
quickly  the  heat  of  the  bodies  with  which  they  come 
in  contact ;  air  and  other  gases,  on  the  contrary,  take 
it  away  very  slowly.     That  is  why  water  seems  cold 
when  we  plunge  our  hand  into  it,  while  the  air,  lower 
in  temperature,   seems   warm  by   comparison.    In 
reality,  if  both  be  of  the  same  temperature,  air  and 
water  give  us  different  sensations:  water  is  cool  to 
us  because  it  draws  our  heat  away;  air  warm  because 
it  does  not  take  away  that  same  heat.     So  if  the  egg 
is  fresh,  and  consequently  the  shell  completely  filled, 
the  tip.  of  the  tongue  applied  to  the  large  end  feels 
the  same  sensation  as  comes  from  contact  with  li- 
quids ;  that  is  to  say,  a  feeling  of  coolness.    But  if 
the  egg  is  stale,  an  air-chamber  has  formed  and  the 
resulting  sensation  is  that  produced  by  contact  with 
a  gas ;  that  is  to  say,  a  sensation  of  warmth,  since 
the  tongue  loses  none  of  its  natural  heat." 

"That  is  certainly  a  curious  test,"  said  Jules, 
"and  I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  carry  it  out  at  the  next 
opportunity. ' ' 


32  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Let  us  go  on  with  the  egg.  Now  conies  the  glair 
or  white,  so  called  because  heat  hardens  it  to  a  pure 
white  matter.  For  the  same  reason,  science  calls  it 
albumen,  from  a  Latin  word,  albus,  meaning  white. 
The  glair  is  arranged  in  a  number  of  layers,  which 
at  both  ends  of  the  egg  twist  round  one  another  and 
form  two  large  knotty  cords  called  chalazcc.  To  see 
these  cords  you  must  break  a  raw  egg  carefully  in  a 
plate.  Then  you  can  distinguish,  on  each  side  of  the 
yolk,  a  mass  where  the  glair  is  thicker  and  rather 
knotty.  There,  somewhat  injured  by  the  breaking  of 
the  egg,  are  found  the  two  cords  in  question.  To 
give  you  a  clear  idea,  take  an  orange,  put  it  in  your 
handkerchief,  and  twist  the  latter  in  opposite  direc- 
tions at  both  ends.  The  orange  in  its  handkerchief 
covering  will  represent  the  spherical  yolk  sur- 
rounded by  the  glair;  the  two  twisted  ends  of  the 
handkerchief  will  be  the  two  strings  of  white,  the  two 
chalazae.  By  means  of  these  two  tethers  the  yolk, 
the  most  important  and  most  delicate  part  of  the  egg, 
is  suspended  as  in  a  hammock,  in  the  center  of  the 
glair,  without  being  exposed  to  disturbances  that 
would  be  dangerous  for  the  germ  of  life  situated  at 
a  point  on  its  surface.  This  glairy  hammock,  with 
its  two  suspending  cords,  has  another  role — a  very 
delicate  one.  The  first  outlines  of  the  coming  chick 
will  appear  at  a  certain  point  of  the  yolk.  As  the 
little  being  forms  and  grows,  it  needs  more  space 
while  still  remaining  tightly  enveloped  and  held  in 
position  so  as  to  avoid  the  slightest  disturbance  in 
the  half  fluid  flesh  just  beginning  to  assume  its 


THE  EGG  33 

proper  shape.  How  are  these  conditions  realized  in 
the  egg?  To  understand  the  matter  thoroughly  let 
us  go  back  to  the  orange  wrapped  in  a  handkerchief 
twisted  at  both  ends.  Is  it  not  true  that  if  both  ends 
untwist  a  little,  the  orange,  supposing  it  to  need  by 
degrees  more  room,  will  always  find  the  necessary 
space  without  for  a  moment  ceasing  to  be  enveloped 
and  motionless?  In  the  same  manner  the  suspend- 
ing cords  of  the  white  slacken  and  gradually  untwist 
as  the  little  bird  grows,  at  the  expense  of  the  yolk, 
in  its  soft  hammock  of  glair;  the  needed  space  is 
made,  and  at  the  same  time  the  feeble  little  bird  re- 
mains just  as  finely  swaddled  and  suspended  in  the 
center  of  the  egg,  protected  from  contact  with  the 
hard  shell. " 

"At  the  beginning, "  interposed  Jules,  "you  called 
an  egg  a  marvel.  I  see  that  there  are,  in  fact,  in  the 
egg  things  very  worthy  of  our  admiration :  the  shell, 
with  its  numerous  air-holes;  the  cavity  at  the  large 
end;  the  air-chamber  where  provision  is  made  for 
breathing;  the  soft  little  bed  of  glair  with  its  sus- 
pending cords  that  untwist  to  make  more  room,  and 
perhaps  that  is  not  all?" 

"No,  my  friend,  that  is  very  far  from  being  all. 
I  limit  myself  her^  to  the  simplest  things  and  those 
that  are  not  beyond  your  grasp.  How  would  it  be 
if  you  could  follow  me  in  the  unfolding  of  higher 
ideas?  You  would  see  how  everything  in  the  egg  is 
arranged  with  infinite  delicacy,  with  a  foresight  that 
we  may  call  maternal,  and  then  you  would  find  my 
word  marvel  the  right  one.  But,  not  to  go  beyond 


34  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

your  small  powers  of  comprehension,  I  abridge, 
much  to  my  regret. 

"The  yolk  or  yelk  (which  means  the  yellow  part) 
is  round  and  bright  yellow;  hence  its  name.  At  a 
point  on  its  surface,  generally  at  the  top,  no  mat- 
ter what  the  position  of  the  egg,  is  seen  a  circular 
spot,  dull  white,  where  the  matter  is  a  little  more  con- 
densed than  elsewhere.  It  is  called  the  cicatricle,  or 
little  scar.  That  is. the  sacred  spot  where  lies  the 
spark  of  life  which,  animated  by  incubation,  will 
quicken  the  substance  of  the  egg  and  mold  it  into  a 
living  being ;  it  is  the  point  of  departure,  the  origin, 
the  germ  of  the  bird.  The  yolk  itself  is  the  nutritive 
reservoir  whence  are  drawn  the  materials  for  this 
work  of  creation.  Quickened  by  the  heat  of  the 
brooding  hen  and  by  the  action  of  the  air,  it  becomes 
covered  with  a  network  of  fine  veins.  These  swell 
with  the  substance  of  the  yolk,  which  turns  to  blood ; 
and  this  blood,  carried  hither  and  thither,  becomes 
the  flesh  of  the  being  in  process  of  formation.  The 
yolk,  then,  is  the  bird's  first  food,  but  food  that  no 
beak  seizes  and  no  stomach  digests,  none  being  in 
existence  yet.  It  changes  to  blood  and  afterward 
to  flesh  without  the  preparatory  work  of  ordinary  di- 
gestion; it  enters  the  veins  directly,  and  thus  nour- 
ishes the  whole  body. 

"Animals  with  udders — the  mammifers — also 
have  nutriment  for  the  very  young  in  the  form  of 
milk,  which  is  indispensable  for  the  weak  stomach  of 
the  nursling.  Well,  the  yolk  is  to  the  bird  in  its  shell 
what  milk  is  to  the  lamb  and  kitten;  it  is  its  milk- 


THE  EGG  35 

food,  as  it  can  have  no  recourse  to  maternal  udders. 
The  popular  saying  has  perfectly  caught  the  strict 
resemblance :  they  call  a  drink  prepared  with  the  yolk 
of  an  egg,  'hen's  milk/  " 

'  *  That  is  what  Mother  Ambroisine  makes  me  take 
when  I  cough  in  the  winter, "  said  Emile. 

"The  delicious  beverage  that  Mother  Ambroisine 
gives  you  when  you  have  a  cold  is  very  properly 
called  'hen's  milk,'  since  it  is  made  with  the  equiva- 
lent of  milk ;  that  is  to  say,  the  yolk  of  an  egg. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VI 

INCUBATION 

"  TNCUBATION  means  lying  upon.  The  brooding 
X  bird  does  in  fact  crouch  or  lie  upon  her  eggs, 
warming  them  with  the  heat  of  her  body  for  a  num- 
ber of  days  with  indefatigable  patience.  When  a 
hen  wishes  to  set,1  she  makes  it  known  by  her  re- 
peated duckings,  little  cries  of  maternal  anxiety,  by 
her  ruffled  feathers,  her  restless  movements,  and  par- 
ticularly by  the  perseverance  with  which  she  stays 
on  the  nest,  even  when  it  has  no  eggs,  where  she  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  laying. 

"Some  hens  with  wandering  dispositions  go  back 
to  the  instincts  of  their  wild  race.  They  leave  the 
hen-house  and  seek  a  hedge  or  thicket,  where  they  se- 
lect a  hiding-place  to  suit  them,  and  there  make  a  lit- 
tle hollow  in  the  earth  which  they  line  as  well  as  they 
can  with  a  mattress  of  dry  grass,  leaves,  and  feath- 
ers. That  is  a  nest  in  the  rough,  without  art,  a 
shapeless  construction  in  comparison  with  the  clever 
masterpiece  of  the  chaffinch  and  goldfinch.  It  is, 
furthermore,  worthy  of  remark  that  all  the  domestic 
birds,  as  if  man's  intervention  had  destroyed  their 
skill  by  freeing  them  from  want,  fail  to  display  in 

i  Uncle  Paul  and  his  nephews  are  here  allowed  to  defy  the  purist, 
as  they  probably  would  in  real  life. — Translator. 


INCUBATION  37 

the  construction  of  their  nests  the  admirable  re- 
sourcefulness shown  by  most  wild  birds.  Here 
might  be  repeated  the  saying,  as  true  for  man  as  for 
beast,  necessity  is  the  mother  of  invention.  Sure 
of  finding,  when  the  time  comes  for  laying,  the  bas- 
ket stuffed  with  hay  by  the  hand  of  the  housewife, 
the  domestic  fowl  does  not  trouble  herself  to  build 
a  nest,  an  undertaking  in  which  the  tiniest  bird  of 
the  fields  shows  itself  a  consummate  architect.  At 
the  most,  when  her  adventurous  disposition  makes 
her  prefer  the  perilous  shelter  of  the  hedge  to  the 
safe  retreat  of  the  poultry-yard,  the  hen,  gleaning 
with  her  beak  a  few  straws  and  leaves,  and  plucking, 
if  need  be,  some  of  her  own  feathers,  succeeds  in 
making,  for  her  period  of  brooding,  a  disordered 
heap  rather  than  a  nest.  There,  every  day,  unknown 
to  all,  she  goes  and  lays  her  egg.  Then  for  three 
whole  weeks  she  is  not  to  be  seen,  or  only  at  intervals. 
That  is  the  time  of  incubation.  At  last,  some  fine 
day,  she  reappears,  very  proud,  at  the  head  of  a  fam- 
ily of  young  chickens,  peeping  and  pecking  around 
her/' 

"I  should  like,"  said  Emile,  "to  have  some  hens 
that  set  like  that  in  the  fields  and  then  come  home 
again  some  day  with  their  family  of  little  chickens." 

"I  must  admit  it  is  a  sight  worthy  of  interest,  that 
of  a  hen  that  has  stolen  her  nest  returning  to  the 
farmhouse  at  the  head  of  her  newly  hatched  young 
chickens.  Her  eyes  shine  with  satisfaction;  her 
clucking  has  something  joyful  about  it.  'Look/  she 
seems  to  say  to  those  who  welcome  her,  'see  how 


38  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

fine,  alert,  and  vigorous  these  young  chickens  are; 
they  are  all  mine;  I  raised  them  there  all  alone  in 
a  corner  of  the  hedge,  and  now  I  bring  them  to  you. 
Am  I  not  a  fine  hen  I '  Yes,  my  dear  biddy,  you  are 
a  fine  hen,  but  also  an  imprudent  one.  In  the  fields 
prowl  the  weasel  and  the  marten  which,  if  you  are 
absent  a  moment,  will  suck  the  blood  of  your  little 
ones ;  in  the  fields  the  fox  is  watching  to  wring  your 
neck;  in  the  fields  there  are  cold,  rain,  bad  weather, 
grave  peril  for  your  shivering  family.  You  would 
do  better  to  remain  at  home. 

"The  greater  number  follow  this  prudent  advice 
and  do  not  leave  the  poultry-yard.  In  the  semi- 
obscurity  of  a  sheltered  quiet  corner  is  placed  the 
egg-basket,  lined  with  a  bed  of  hay  or  of  crumpled 
straw.  In  it  are  put  from  twelve  to  fifteen  eggs,  the 
largest  and  freshest  being  chosen,  and  preferably 
those  not  more  than  a  week  old.  If  they  were  two 
or  three  weeks  old  they  would  not  be  sure  to  hatch, 
as  in  many  of  them  the  germ  would  have  become  too 
old  and  would  have  lost  the  power  to  develop. 
These  arrangements  made,  the  eggs  are  left  to  the 
setting  hen  without  being  touched  again. 

" Whoever  has  not  seen  a  setting  hen  has  missed 
one  of  the  most  touching  sights  in  this  world:  the 
devotion  of  the  mother-bird  to  her  eggs,  her  self- 
forgetfulness  even  to  the  point  of  sacrificing  her 
own  life.  Her  eyes  shine  with  fever,  her  skin  burns. 
Eating  and  drinking  are  forgotten,  and  in  order  not 
to  leave  her  eggs  a  moment  a  hen  might  even  let  her- 
self die  of  hunger  on  the  nest  if  some  one  did  not 


INCUBATION  39 

come  every  day  and  gently  take  her  off  and  make  her 
eat.  Others,  less  persevering,  leave  the  basket  of 
their  own  accord,  snatch  up  a  little  food,  and  immedi- 
ately go  back  to  the  nest." 

"Do  hens  keep  up  that  tiresome  setting  very 
long?"  asked  Emile. 

"It  takes  twenty  or  twenty-one  days  for  the  young 
chickens  to  come  out  of  the  shell.  During  the  whole 
of  that  time,  night  and  day,  the  mother  remains 
squatting  on  the  eggs,  except  for  the  rare  moments 
that  she  spares,  as  if  grudgingly,  for  the  necessities 
of  nourishment.  Her  only  distraction  in  this  com- 
plete retirement  is  to  turn  the  eggs  over  every 
twenty-four  hours  and  change  their  place,  moving 
those  outside  into  the  center,  and  vice  versa,  so  that 
all  may  have  an  equal  share  of  heat.  That  is  a  deli- 
cate operation,  and  it  must  be  left  to  the  hen's 
care  to  move  the  eggs  with  her  beak.  Let  us  be 
careful  not  to  interfere  with  our  clumsy  hands,  for 
the  bird  knows  better  than  we  how  to  manage  it." 

"If  the  hen  is  so  careful  to  move  the  eggs  every 
day  and  give  them  all  the  same  amount  of  heat,"  said 
Jules,  "it  must  be  heat  alone  that  makes  them 
hatch?" 

"Yes,  my  friend,  simply  the  heat  of  the  mother 
makes  the  eggs  hatch.  That  is  why  the  hen  can  be 
dispensed  with  and  the  eggs  hatched  by  artificial 
heat,  provided  it  be  well  regulated,  gentle,  and  con- 
tinued for  a  long  time  without  interruption.  The 
Egyptians,  an  ancient  people  of  great  skill,  practised 
this  method  thousands  of  years  ago.  They  put  the 


40  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

eggs  by  hundreds  of  dozens  into  a  sort  of  oven  gently 
heated  for  three  weeks,  the  period  of  natural  incu- 
bation. At  the  end  of  that  time  the  peepings  of  the 
countless  brood  did  not  fail  to  announce  the  success 
of  the  operation/' 

"  What  a  big  family  that  oven-hatched  brood  must 
have  been!"  exclaimed  Emile.  "It  would  have 
taken  a  hundred  hens  to  set  on  all  the  eggs,  but  in 
this  way  they  were  all  hatched  at  once." 

"A  setting  hen  ceases  to  lay,  and  it  was  doubtless 
in  order  not  to  interrupt  the  beneficent  daily  produc- 
tion of  eggs  that  the  Egyptians  invented  artificial 
incubation  in  an  oven.  For  the  same  reason  some- 
times with  us  recourse  is  had  to  this  means,  espe- 
cially where  the  raising  of  poultry  is  made  a  busi- 
ness ;  only  the  incubation  is  no  longer  carried  out  in 
an  oven  but  in  ingeniously  contrived  incubators. 
In  a  drawer,  on  a  bed  of  hay,  the  eggs  are  placed  in 
a  single  layer.  Above,  and  separated  from  the 
brooder  by  a  sheet-iron  partition,  is  a  bed  of  water, 
which  a  lamp,  kept  always  alight,  warms  and  main- 
tains at  the  temperature  that  the  hen's  body  would 
give;  that  is  to  say,  forty  degrees  centigrade.  In 
twenty-one  days  under  this  warm  ceiling  the  eggs 
hatch  just  as  they  would  under  the  hen. ' ' 

"Oh,  Uncle,"  cried  Emile,  "I  should  really  like  to 
have  an  incubator  like  that  in  a  corner  of  my  room 
and  watch  the  progress  of  the  hatching  every  day 
by  opening  the  drawer." 

"What  you  would  like  to  do,  others,  more  skilful, 
have  already  done,  not  only  opening  the  drawer  but 


INCUBATION  41 

breaking  an  egg  each  day  so  as  to  see  how  things 
are  going.  I  told  you  that  the  germ  of  the  bird  is 
a  round  spot  of  dull  white,  the  cicatricle,  which  by  its 
mobility  is  always  on  top  at  the  surface  of  the  yolk, 
no  matter  what  the 
position  of  the  egg. 
After  five  or  six 
hours  of  incubation 
you  can  already  dis- 
tinguish in  the  center 
of  the  cicatricle  a 
minute  glairy  swell- 
ing which  will  be  the 
head,  and  a  line 
which  will  be  the  backbone.  Pretty  soon  there  be- 
gins to  beat,  at  regular  intervals,  the  organ  most 
necessary  to  life,  the  heart,  which  chases  through  a 
network  of  fine  veins  the  blood  formed,  little  by  little, 
out  of  the  substance  of  the  yolk,  and  distributes  it 
everywhere  to  furnish  materials  to  the  other  organs 
just  coming  into  being.  It  is  toward  the  second  day 
that  these  first  heart-beats,  destined  to  continue 
henceforth  until  death,  become  apparent.  Thus  irri- 
gated with  running  flesh — for  blood  is  nothing  else 
— this  organism  thenceforward  makes  rapid  prog- 
ress. The  eyes  show  themselves  and  form  a  large 
black  spot  on  each  side  of  the  head ;  the  quills  of  the 
large  feathers  form  in  their  sheaths;  the  scales  of 
the  feet  are  outlined  in  a  bluish  tint;  the  bones,  at 
first  gelatinous,  acquire  firmness  by  becoming  in- 
crusted  with  a  small  quantity  of  stony  matter. 


42  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

From  the  tenth  day  all  the  parts  of  the  young  chicken 
are  well  formed.  The  little  being,  softly  suspended 
in  its  hammock  by  means  of  the  two  suspending 
cords  that  untwist  little  by  little  to  give  more  room 
as  it  grows,  is  bent  over  on  itself,  the  head  folded 
against  the  breast  and  hidden  under  its  wing.  Note, 
my  friends,  that  it  is  precisely  this  attitude  of  deep 
sleep  inside  the  egg  that  the  hen  assumes  when  she 
wants  to  sleep.  Crouched  on  her  perch,  she  again 
folds  her  head  on  her  breast  and  tucks  it  under  her 
wing,  just  as  she  did  when  she  was  a  little  chicken 
in  its  shell. 

"In  the  meantime  the  little  bird  keeps  growing  on 
the  yellow  and  white  matter;  matter  which  soaks 
and  penetrates  it  and,  vivified  by  the  air,  becomes 
its  blood  and  its  flesh.  One  day  it  breaks  the  thin 
membrane  under  the  shell,  and  there  it  is  more  at 
ease  with  the  increase  of  space  given  it  by  the  air- 
chamber.  Now  an  attentive  ear  can  distinguish 
feeble  peepings  inside  the  shell ;  it  is  the  seventeenth 
or  eighteenth  day.  A  couple  of  days  more,  and  the 
young  chicken,  summoning  all  its  strength,  will  ap- 
ply itself  to  the  arduous  work  of  deliverance.  A 
pointed  callosity,  made  expressly  for  the  purpose, 
has  formed  on  the  upper  part  of  the  tip-end  of  the 
beak.  Here  is  the  tool,  the  pick,  for  opening  its 
prison;  a  tool  for  that  particular  purpose  and  of 
very  short  duration,  which  will  disappear  as  soon 
as  the  shell  is  pierced.  With  this  provisional  pick, 
the  little  chicken  begins  to  hammer  the  shell;  perse- 
veringly  it  pushes,  strikes,  scratches,  until  the  stone 


INCUBATION  43 

wall  yields.  For  the  most  vigorous  it  takes  several 
hours.  Oh,  joy!  the  shell  is  broken;  there  is  the 
young  chicken's  little  head,  and  all  yellow  velvety 
down,  and  still  wet  with  the  moisture  of  the  egg. 
The  mother  comes  to  its  aid  and  completes  its 
deliverance;  others,  weaker  or  less  skilful,  take 
twenty-four  hours  of  painful  effort  to  free  them- 
selves. Some  even  exhaust  themselves  in  the  un- 
dertaking and  perish  miserably  in  the  egg  without 
succeeding  in  breaking  the  shell. " 

"  Those  are  the  very  ones  the  mother  ought  to 
help,"  said  Jules. 

' '  She  would  be  careful  not  to,  for  fear  of  a  worse 
accident  than  a  difficult  birth.  How  could  she  di- 
rect her  blows  accurately  enough  not  to  wound  the 
tender  little  chicken  just  inside  the  shell?  The 
slightest  false  move  would  cause  a  wound,  and  at  so 
tender  an  age  any  wound  is  death.  We  ourselves, 
with  all  the  dexterity  and  care  possible,  could  not, 
without  danger,  help  the  bird  in  distress ;  it  can  be 
tried  as  a  last  resort,  but  the  chance  of  success  is 
very  small.  The  young  chicken  is  the  only  one 
capable  of  carrying  through  this  delicate  deliverance 
if  strength  does  not  fail  it.  The  hen  knows  this 
wonderfully  well,  and  so  does  not  interfere  except  to 
finish  freeing  the  prisoner  when  half  out  of  its  shell. 
Let  us  hope  that  things  will  turn  out  as  we  wish,  and 
that  on  the  twenty-first  day  the  whole  family  may 
be  warmed  under  the  mother's  wings  without  mortal 
accident  at  the  moment  of  hatching. 

"From  the  instant  of  leaving  the  shell  the  young 


44  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

chickens  already  know  how  to  peck  food  and  how 
to  run  around  the  mother  who,  clucking,  leads  the 
way.  They  have  besides  a  little  fur  of  downy  hair 
that  clothes  them  warmly.  This  development  is  not 
found  in  all  birds;  far  from  it.  Pigeons,  for  ex- 
ample, come  naked  from  the  egg  and  do  not  know 
how  to  eat ;  the  father  and  mother  have  to  feed  them 
by  disgorging  a  mouthful  of  food  into  their  beaks. 
The  young  of  the  warbler,  chaffinch,  goldfinch,  tomtit, 
lark,  in  fact  of  nearly  all  the  field  birds,  are  naked, 
very  weak,  at  first  blind,  and  completely  incapable  of 
feeding  themselves,  even  with  the  food  just  under 
their  beaks.  The  parents,  with  infinite  tenderness, 
have  for  a  number  of  days  to  bring  it  to  them  and 
put  it  into  their  beaks." 

"That  is  a  difference  that  has  always  struck  me/' 
commented  Jules.  "Little  sparrows  open  their 
mouths  wide  to  receive  the  food  offered  them,  but 
for  a  long  time  they  do  not  know  how  to  take  it  even 
if  it  is  put  at  the  very  end  of  their  beak.  On  the 
contrary,  little  chickens  easily  pick  up  from  the 
ground  for  themselves  the  seeds  and  worms  that  the 
mother  digs  up  for  them. '  * 

"I  will  tell  you,  if  you  do  not  already  know,"  con- 
tinued Uncle  Paul,  "that  the  young  of  the  duck,  tur- 
key, goose,  and,  among  wild  birds,  the  partridge  and 
quail,  have  the  same  precocity  as  those  of  the  hen. 
They  are  clothed  with  down  on  coming  out  of  the  egg, 
and  know  how  to  eat.  One  of  the  causes  of  this  dif- 
ference in  the  way  young  birds  act  immediately  after 


INCUBATION  45 

hatching  comes  from  the  size  of  the  egg.  The  chick 
is  formed  wholly  from  the  substances  contained  in 
the  egg;  the  larger  the  egg  in  proportion  to  the  size 
of  the  animal,  the  stronger  and  more  developed  the 
young.  Therefore  the  kind  with  the  largest  eggs 
are  clothed  at  the  time  of  hatching;  they  can  run  and 
know  how  to  eat,  unaided.  Where  the  eggs  are  rela- 
tively small  the  young  are  hatched  weak,  naked, 
blind,  and  for  a  long  time,  motionless  in  their  nest, 
demand  the  mother 's  beakf ul  of  food. 

"The  largest  egg  known  is  that  of  an  enormous 
bird  that  formerly  lived  in  the  island  of  Madagascar, 
and  of  which  the  species  appears  to-day  to  have  been 
completely  destroyed.  This  bird  is  called  the  epy- 
ornis.  It  was  three  or  four  meters  tall  and  thus 
rivaled  in  stature  a  very  long-legged  horse  or,  better 
still,  the  animal  called  a  giraffe.  Such  birds  ought 
to  lay  monstrous  eggs;  such  in  fact  they  are;  their 
length  is  three  decimeters  and  a  half  and  their  ca- 
pacity nearly  nine  liters." 

"Nine  liters !"  exclaimed  Emile.  "Oh,  what  an 
egg!  Our  large  vinegar  jug  only  holds  ten  liters. 
Certainly  the  young  that  come  from  that  ought  to 
know  how  to  run  and  to  eat." 

' '  To  equal  in  bulk  the  egg  of  the  epyornis  it  would 
take  one  hundred  and  forty-eight  hen's  eggs." 

"I  think  they  could  make  a  famous  omelet  with 
only  one  of  those  eggs. ' ' 

"A  fine  large  one  could  be  made,  too,  with  an  os- 
trich-egg, which  in  size  represents  nearly  two  dozen 


46  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

lien's  eggs.  It  need  not  be  added  that  young  os- 
triches know  how  to  run  and  to  eat  as  soon  as  they 
come  out  of  the  shell. 

" Those  are  the  largest  eggs;  now  let  us  consider 
the  smallest  ones.  They  are  those  of  the  humming- 
bird, a  charming  creature  whose  splendid  plumage 
would  outshine  the  most  brilliant  costly  metals,  pre- 
cious stones,  and  jewels.  There  are  some  as  small  as 
our  large  wasps  and  that  certain  spiders  catch  in 
their  webs  just  as  the  spiders  of  our  country  catch 
gnats.  Their  nest  is  a  cup  of  cotton  no  bigger  than 
half  an  apricot.  Judge  then  the  size  of  the  eggs.  It 
would  take  three  hundred  and  forty  to  make  one 
hen's  egg,  and  fifty  thousand  to  make  one  laid  by  the 
epyornis." 

"I  imagine  the  little  humming-birds  in  their  nest 
must  be  all  naked  at  first  and  blind,  taking  their  food 
from  their  mother's  beak. ' ' 

"From  the  smallness  of  the  egg  it  could  not  be 
otherwise.'* 


CHAPTEE  VII 

THE  YOUNG  CHICKENS 

rPlHE  hatching  of  the  eggs  does  not  take  place  all 
JL  at  once ;  sometimes  it  is  twenty-four  hours  be- 
fore all  the  eggs  are  broken.  A  danger  thus  arises. 
Divided  between  her  desire  to  continue  setting  and 
her  wish  to  give  her  attention  to  the  newly  born,  the 
mother  may  make  some  sudden  movement  and  unin- 
tentionally trample  on  the  tender  creatures,  or  even 
leave  the  nest  too  soon,  which  would  cause  the  loss  of 
the  backward  eggs.  What,  then,  is  to  be  done !  The 
first-born  are  taken  as  carefully  as  possible  and 
placed  in  a  basket  stuffed  with  wool  or  cotton  and  put 
in  a  warm  place  near  the  fire.  When  the  whole  fam- 
ily is  hatched  it  is  restored  to  the  mother. 

6 '  The  first  days  are  hard  ones  for  the  young  chick- 
ens ;  they  are  so  delicate,  poor  little  things,  so  chilly 
under  their  light  yellow  down.  Where  will  they  be 
kept  at  first  I  Shall  it  be  with  the  grown-up  poultry, 
a  turbulent  crowd,  quarrelsome,  rough,  and  without 
any  consideration  for  the  weak?  What  would  be- 
come of  them,  the  little  innocents,  not  yet  well  bal- 
anced on  their  legs,  in  the  midst  of  the  greedy  hens 
which,  in  scratching  for  worms,  might  give  them 
some  brutal  kick?  How  dangerous  for  them  to  be 
with  the  quarrelsome  cocks  that  disdain  to  look  out 

47 


48  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

for  the  frightened  little  giddy-heads  straying  about 
under  their  very  spurs !  No,  no,  that  is  not  the  place 
for  them. 

"What  they  require  is  a  place  set  apart,  isolated 
from  the  rough  grown-up  poultry,  heated  to  a  mild 
temperature,  and  carpeted  with  fine  straw.  If  this 
place  is  wanting,  recourse  is  had  to  a  coop,  a  sort  of 
large  cage,  under  which  the  mother  is  placed  with 
some  food.  Sometimes  the  bars  of  this  refuge  are 
far  enough  apart  to  permit  the  young  chickens  to 
come  in  and  go  out  at  will,  so  as  to  enjoy  their  play; 
sometimes  they  are  too  close  together  for  this,  and 
then  the  coop  is  lifted  a  little  at  one  side  when  it  is 
desired  to  give  liberty  to  the  captives.  But  the 
mother  always  stays  in  the  cage,  whence  she  watches 
over  the  young  chickens,  calling  them  to  her  at  the 
least  appearance  of  danger.  If  the  weather  is  fine, 
the  coop  is  placed  out  of  doors  in  an  exposed  spot, 
with  a  sheltering  canopy  of  canvas,  foliage,  or  straw, 
when  the  sun  is  too  hot." 

"There  the  young  chickens  are  safe,"  said  Emile, 
' '  out  of  danger  of  any  accident  amongst  the  boister- 
ous population  of  the  poultry-yard.  If  some  danger 
arises,  the  hen  gives  her  warning  call,  and  those  that 
are  outside  immediately  scamper  through  the  narrow 
passage  and  take  refuge  with  their  mother.  Now 
about  their  food." 

"Food  is  not  forgotten:  under  the  coop  is  a  plate 
containing  water,  and  another  with  pap.  For  very 
young  chickens  it  is  not  yet  time  for  strong  food, 
hard  grain  which  requires  a  vigorous  stomach  to  di- 


THE  YOUNG  CHICKENS  49 

gest;  they  must  have  something  at  once  nutritious 
and  easy  to  digest.  Their  pap  is  composed  of  finely 
crumbled  bread,  a  few  salad  leaves  well  chopped  up, 
hard-boiled  eggs,  and  a  pinch  of  fine  millet  to  accus- 
tom them  by  degrees  to  a  diet  of  grain.  The  whole  is 
carefully  mixed. 

"On  coming  out  of  the  shell,  the  young  chickens, 
like  other  birds  from  a  relatively  large  egg,  are  quick 
at  taking  food  for  themselves;  nevertheless  it  is 
necessary,  from  their  utter  inexperience,  for  the 
mother  to  show  them  how  to  strike  the  beak  into  the 
pap.  Let  us  witness  this  lesson  of  the  first  mouth- 
ful. The  farmer's  wife  has  just  put  the  food  under 
the  coop.  t  What  is  this  I9  perhaps  the  innocent  little 
chickens  ask,  their  stomachs  beginning  to  cry  hunger 
now  that  they  have  been  nearly  twenty-four  hours 
out  of  the  shell.  'What  is  this?'  All  flurried  with 
joy,  the  mother  calls  them  to  the  plate  in  accents  re- 
sembling articulate  speech.  They  approach,  totter- 
ing on  their  little  legs.  The  hen  then  gives  a  few 
pecks  in  the  mess,  but  only  pretends  to  eat,  so  as  not 
to  diminish  the  dainty  food  reserved  for  the  little 
'ones.  One  of  the  chickens,  perhaps  a  little  quicker 
of  apprehension  than  the  rest,  seems  to  have  under- 
stood ;  it  seizes  a  crumb  of  bread  in  its  beak  but  im- 
mediately lets  it  fall  again.  The  mother  begins 
again,  urges,  encourages  with  her  voice  and  look,  and 
this  time  swallows  in  plain  sight  of  them  all.  The 
young  chicken  returns  to  its  crumb  and  after  two  or 
three  attempts  succeeds  in  swallowing  it,  half  closing 
its  eyes  with  satisfaction.  'Ha!  how  good  it  is!'  it 


50  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

seems  to  say ;  'let  us  try  again. '  And  another  crumb 
goes  down;  then  a  little  piece  of  yolk  of  egg  follows. 
Henceforth  it  can  manage  for  itself.  The  example 
spreads ;  one  here,  another  there,  tries  its  beak ;  the 
hen  repeating  her  patient  lesson  for  the  less  clever 
of  the  brood.  Soon  they  have  all  understood  and  are 
vying  with  one  another  in  their  assaults  on  the  pap. 
Then  comes  a  lesson  in  drinking.  How  to  plunge 
the  beak  fearlessly  into  the  water,  how  to  raise  the 
head  heavenward  so  as  to  let  the  mouthful  of  liquid 
go  down  the  throat,  is  what  the  hen  will  show  her 
pupils  by  repeated  examples.  In  imitating  her, 
some  giddy  one  will  perhaps  put  its  foot  into  the 
water  or  even  fall  into  the  plate,  a  fearful  possibil- 
ity for  the  inexperienced  drinker.  But  the  hen  will 
dry  the  unfortunate  one  under  her  wings  and  show 
it  another  time  how  to  manage  better.  To  be  brief, 
in  a  single  short  session  the  whole  brood  has  been 
taught  the  two  chief  needs  of  this  world,  eating  and 
drinking. ' ' 

"They  are  scholars  quick  to  learn, "  said  Jules. 
"It  is  true  the  prompting  of  the  stomach,  hunger, 
must  have  helped  them." 

"Hardly  a  week  has  passed  before  the  young 
chickens  are  out  of  the  coop  and  running  around, 
though  not  to  any  great  distance,  for  if  one  appears 
to  want  to  go  off  the  mother  admonishes  it  and  re- 
calls it  to  more  prudent  ways.  If  she  suspects  the 
slightest  danger  she  recalls  them  all  to  her  retreat  by 
a  persuasive  clucking.  Immediately  the  little  chick- 
ens scamper  back,  squeeze  between  the  bars  or  crawl 


THE  YOUNG  CHICKENS  51 

under  the  lifted  end  of  the  coop,  and  regain  the  ref- 
uge where  no  intruders  can  penetrate.  When  the 
time  comes  for  these  first  sallies  outside  the  coop,  the 
hen  can  be  set  free  and  allowed  to  lead  her  family 
where  she  pleases. 

"One  of  the  most  interesting  sights  of  the  farm  is 
that  of  the  hen  at  the  head  of  her  young  chickens. 
With  a  slow  step,  measured  by  the  feebleness  of  her 
brood,  she  goes  hither  and  thither  on  the  chance  of 
finding  something  of  value  to  her,  always  with  vigil- 
ant eye  and  attentive  ear.  She  clucks  with  a  voice 
made  hoarse  by  her  maternal  exertions ;  she  scratches 
to  dig  up  little  seeds  which  the  young  ones  come  and 
take  from  under  her  beak.  Here  is  a  good  place 
chanced  upon  in  the  sunshine  for  a  rest  from  walking 
and  for  getting  warm.  The  hen  crouches  down,  ruf- 
fles up  her  plumage  and  slightly  raises  her  wings, 
arching  them  in  a  sort  of  vault.  All  run  and  squat 
under  the  warm  cover.  Two  or  three  put  their  heads 
out  of  the  window,  their  pretty  heads,  all  alert, 
framed  in  their  mother's  somber  plumage.  One,  in 
its  boldness,  settles  down  on  her  back,  and  from  this 
elevated  position  pecks  the  hen's  neck;  the  others, 
the  great  majority,  hide  in  her  down  and  sleep  or 
peep  softly.  The  siesta  finished,  they  resume  their 
promenade,  the  mother  scratching  and  clucking,  the 
little  ones  trotting  around  her. 

"But  what  is  this?  It  is  the  shadow  of  a  bird  of 
prey,  which  for  a  moment  has  darkened  the  sunshine 
of  the  courtyard.  The  menacing  apparition  did  not 
last  more  than  the  twinkling  of  an  eye ;  nevertheless 


52  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  hen  saw  it.  Danger  threatens,  the  rapacious  bird 
is  not  far  away.  At  the  note  of  alarm  the  young 
chickens  hasten  to  take  refuge  under  the  mother,  who 
makes  a  rampart  for  them  of  her  wings.  And  now 
the  ravisher  may  come.  This  mother,  so  feeble,  so 
timid,  that  a  mere  nothing  would  put  her  to  flight 
on  all  other  occasions,  becomes  imposingly  audacious 
where  her  brood  is  concerned.  Let  the  goshawk  ap- 
pear, and  the  hen,  full  of  tenderness  and  intrepidity, 
will  throw  herself  in  front  of  the  terrible  talons.  By 
the  beating  of  her  wings,  her  redoubled  cries,  her 
furious  pecks  with  her  beak,  she  will  hold  her  own 
against  the  bird  of  prey,  until  at  last  it  beats  a  re- 
treat, repulsed  by  this  indomitable  resistance. 

"The  attachment  of  the  hen  to  her  young  is  shown 
in  another  very  remarkable  circumstance.  As  she  is 
an  excellent  brooder,  they  sometimes  give  her  ducks ' 
eggs  to  hatch.  The  hen  brings  up  her  adopted  fam- 
ily as  she  would  her  own ;  she  exercises  the  same  care 
over  the  little  ducks  as  she  would  over  chickens  of 
her  own.  All  goes  well  as  long  as  the  ducklings,  cov- 
ered with  a  velvety  yellow  down,  conform  to  the  ways 
of  their  nurse  and  run  under  her  wing  at  the  first 
summons.  But  a  time  comes  when  their  aquatic  in- 
stinct awakens.  They  smell  the  pond,  the  neighbor- 
ing pond,  where  the  frog  croaks  and  the  tadpole 
frisks.  They  go  waddling  along,  one  after  another, 
the  old  hen  following  them  in  ignorance  of  their  proj- 
ect. They  reach  the  pond  and  dash  into  the  water. 
Then  it  is  that  the  hen,  believing  the  very  lives  of  her 
little  ones  in  peril,  gives  vent  to  the  most  desperate 


THE  YOUNG  CHICKENS  53 

outcry.  In  her  mortal  terror  the  poor  mother  races 
in  distraction  along  the  bank,  her  voice  hoarse  with 
emotion,  her  plumage  bristling  with  fear.  She 
calls,  menaces,  supplicates.  An  angry  red  mounts 
to  her  comb,  the  fire  of  despair  illumines  her  eye. 
She  even  goes — miracle  of  mother  love — she  even 
goes  so  far  as  to  risk  one  foot  in  the  water,  that  per- 
fidious element,  the  sight  of  which  makes  her  almost 
faint  with  fear.  But  to  all  her  supplications  the 
little  ducklings  turn  a  deaf  ear,  happy  in  their  pur- 
suit of  the  silver-bellied  tadpole  among  the  cresses." 

"Oh,  the  little  rascals,"  exclaimed  Emile,  "not  to 
listen  to  their  nurse 's  warnings !  However,  as  they 
are  ducks  they  can't  get  along  without  water." 

"They  go  there  very  often  alone  at  first,  in  spite 
of  the  hen's  remonstrances;  then,  reassured  by  the 
first  attempts,  she  willingly  leads  them  to  the  bath 
and  from  the  bank  watches  their  joyful  gambols." 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

THE   POULABD  1 

T  N  a  month  the  young  chickens  are  strong  enough 
X  to  do  without  the  tender  care  of  their  early  days. 
The  pap,  the  dainty  dish  of  hard-boiled  eggs  mixed 
with  lettuce  and  bread  crumbs,  is  no  longer  served  to 
them,  but  their  rations  consist  simply  of  grain  and 
green  stuff.  This  kind  of  weaning  is  not  effected 
without  some  regret  on  their  part  at  the  remem- 
brance of  the  pap ;  but  the  mother  makes  amends  for 
it  by  teaching  them  to  scratch  the  earth  and  seek  in- 
sects and  worms,  a  royal  feast  for  them.  She  shows 
them  how  a  fly  should  be  snapped  up  when  warming 
itself  in  the  sun  against  the  wall ;  how  the  worm  is  to 
be  caught  and  drawn  from  the  ground -before  it  goes 
into  its  hole.  She  shows  them  in  what  manner  to 
proceed  in  order  to  derive  the  largest  profit  from  a 
tuft  of  grass  where  the  ants  have  stored  their  eggs ; 
with  what  nice  attention  they  must  search  the  under 
side  of  large  leaves  where  various  insects  are  in 
hiding.  How  to  carry  out  little  predatory  excur- 
sions in  the  neighboring  cultivated  fields  when  op- 
portunity offers,  how  to  scratch  up  the  newly  made 
garden-plots  and  rummage  in  every  nook  and  cor- 

iThe  poulard    (French  poularde)   bears  the  same  relation  to  the 
pullet  as  the  capon  does  to  the  young  rooster. — Translator. 

54 


THE  POULARD  55 

ner,  pillaging  here  and  pilfering  there — this,  too,  is 
all  comprised  in  the  educational  curriculum  prepared 
by  the  careful  mother.  After  a  couple  of  weeks  of 
such  practice  the  pupils  are  past  masters ;  they  lose 
the  name  of  chickens  and  take  that  of  pullets  and 
roosters.  Then  the  family  disbands,  the  hen  return- 
ing to  her  laying  of  eggs,  and  the  chickens,  thence- 
forth expert  in  the  difficult  science  of  earning  their 
living,  being  left  to  themselves. 

"  Very  diverse  fates  await  them.  Some,  fortune's 
favorites,  will  grow  peacefully  to  increase  the  poul- 
try-yard ;  others,  more  numerous,  as  soon  as  they  are 
large  enough  will  be  given  over  to  the  kitchen  knife ; 
some,  chosen  from  those  easiest  to  fatten,  will  un- 
dergo a  diet  that  will  make  them  peculiarly  suitable 
for  the  table.  Let  me  tell  you  to-day  through  what 
grievous  trials  the  poor  bird  passes  to  become,  by  ar- 
tificial aid,  the  plump,  fat,  succulent  fowl  that  we  call 
a  poulard/' 

"Then  a  poulard  is  not  a  separate  species  of  hen?" 
asked  Jules. 

"No,  my  friend.  The  poulard  is  only  an  ordinary 
hen  artificially  subjected  to  a  kind  of  life  that  fattens 
it.  All  species  do  not  lend  themselves  with  equal 
success  to  this  artificial  fattening;  the  best  known 
in  this  respect  is  that  of  la  Fleche,  which  furnishes 
the  celebrated  poulard  of  Mans. 

"I  have  already  told  you  a  few  words  about  this 
species,  which  is  distinguished  from  the  others  by 
its  dashing  appearance  and  long  legs.  The  plumage 
is  entirely  black,  touched  with  glints  of  violet  and 


56  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

green.  The  cock  carries  proudly,  for  comb,  two 
horns  of  brilliant  red  flesh;  its  wattles  are  pendent 
and  very  long.  The  hen  has  two  similar  but  shorter 
horns;  her  wattles  are  small  and  rounded;  finally, 
her  legs  have  not  the  disproportionate  length  of  the 
cock's  tall  stilts.  Such  are  the  patients  preemi- 
nently destined  for  the  cruel  industry  of  fattening. 
Let  us  come  now  to  the  practice  of  it. 

<  <  The  greatest  care  in  this  world  is  that  of  the  fam- 
ily. You  know  with  what  continual  and  laborious 
solicitude  the  hen  watches  over  her  little  ones,  with 
what  self-sacrifice  the  mother  spends  herself  in  order 
to  keep  her  nest  of  eggs  warm.  If  pains  were  not 
taken  to  remove  her  from  the  nest  and  make  her  eat, 
she  would  let  herself  starve  to  death,  sacrificing  her 
own  life  for  the  sake  of  her  eggs.  Is  it  possible  for 
a  bird  to  take  on  flesh  with  such  ardent  maternal  love 
burning  in  her  veins  f  Certainly  not.  The  first  con- 
dition for  becoming  large  and  fat  is  to  consider  one 's 
self  alone,  a  thing  permitted  only  to  the  beast  whose 
end  is  to  become  an  excellent  roast. 

"Well,  in  order  that  the  hen  may  consider  solely 
herself,  think  of  nothing  but  eating  and  digesting 
well,  so  as  to  take  on  fat  and  flesh  abundantly,  it  is 
put  out  of  her  power  to  lay,  which  in  turn  takes  from 
her  all  idea  of  brooding  and  of  raising  young 
chickens.  Out  of  a  mother,  ready  to  devote  herself 
unstintingly,  is  made  a  brute  that,  if  only  its  crop  be 
full,  has  no  care  of  any  kind ;  in  fact,  a  veritable  fat- 
factory.  The  operation  is  a  cruel  one.  With  the 
blade  of  a  penknife  a  slight  incision  is  made  in  the 


THE  POULARD  57 

stomach,  and  the  organ  in  which  the  eggs  are  formed 
is  removed.  With  a  little  care  the  slight  wound  soon 
heals,  and  the  mutilated  bird  is  ready  for  the  life  of 
a  poulard.  Let  loose  in  the  poultry-yard,  it  has 
henceforth  nothing  to  do  but  eat,  digest,  and  sleep ; 
sleep,  digest,  and  eat.  Leading  such  a  life,  the  bird 
soon  begins  to  grow  fat.  Things  go  all  the  better 
and  quicker,  however,  if  the  bird  cannot  move  freely, 
cannot  come  and  go  at  will ;  for  it  is  to  be  remarked 
that  no  more  than  love  of  offspring  does  love  of  lib- 
erty fatten  those  that  feel  its  generous  ardor.  You 
will  ponder  that  later,  my  children,  when  you  are 
older.  So  they  confine  the  poulards  in  coops. ' ' 

"What  sort  of  coops V9  asked  Emile. 

"They  are  low  cages  divided  into  cells,  with  one 
poulard  to  a  cell.  Crouching  in  its  narrow  compart- 
ment, the  fowl  cannot  move  or  even  turn  round. 
Solid  partitions  bar  the  view  except  in  front  near  the 
feed-trough,  and  prevent  its  seeing  its  neighbors, 
its  companions  in  confinement,  so  that  nothing  may 
distract  it  from  its  ceaseless  work  of  digestion.  The 

0 

cage  is  placed  in  a  room  heated  to  a  mild  tempera- 
ture, far  from  all  noise  and  in  a  semi-obscurity  which 
induces  sleep,  so  favorable  to  the  functions  of 
the  stomach.  At  punctually  regulated  hours,  far 
enough  apart  for  appetite  to  be  aroused,  but  near 
enough  together  to  prevent  its  becoming  actual  hun- 
ger, which  would  impair  the  well-being  of  the  stom- 
ach and  hinder  the  fattening  of  the  bird,  three  meals 
a  day  are  served  in  the  feed-trough.  Eaw  beets, 
cooked  potatoes,  crushed  grain,  curdled  milk,  barley, 


58  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

wheat,  maize,  buckwheat,  compose  the  menu  in  turn, 
so  as  to  excite  by  variety  and  choice  of  food  an  appe- 
tite that  satiety  daily  makes  more  languishing. 
Thus  fed  to  repletion,  the  poor  creature,  with  noth- 
ing to  distract  it  from  the  filling  of  its  crop,  eats  to 
pass  the  time,  falls  asleep  from  sheer  stupor,  awakes, 
and  begins  to  eat  again,  only  to  fall  asleep  once  more. 
Toward  the  end  of  this  treatment  the  poulard, 
gorged  beyond  measure,  refuses  to  eat  any  more. 
To  arouse  the  last  feeble  promptings  of  appetite  re- 
course is  had  to  more  delicate  food,  calculated  to 
keep  alive  a  few  days  longer  the  desire  for  nourish- 
ment. For  solid  food  a  dough  of  fine  flour  is  served, 
and  for  liquid  refreshment,  milk,  pure  milk,  if  you 
please.  If  the  bird,  already  stuffed  to  bursting,  pos- 
itively refuses  to  eat  any  more,  it  is  made  to  eat  by 
force." 

"By  force V9  said  Emile,  "when  it  is  bursting  and 
can  eat  no  more  I ' ' 

"Yes,  my  friend,  by  force.  Willy,  nilly,  it  must 
still  swallow  for  some  days  longer,  after  which  comes 
the  end  of  its  miseries.  It  is  killed  and  appears  on 
the  table  as  a  tender  and  juicy  roast  abounding  in 
fat. 

"This  forced  feeding  is  the  essential  feature  in  the 
method  followed  to  obtain  the  renowned  poulards  of 
Mans. 

"According  to  the  masters  of  this  art,  the  process 
is  as  follows :  Without  preliminary  subjection  to  the 
mutilation  I  spoke  of,  the  fowls  are  placed  in  narrow 
cages  in  a  warm,  dark  room,  the  doors  and  windows 


THE  POULARD  59 

of  which  have  been  made  tight  to  prevent  the  free 
circulation  of  air.  For  food,  a  mixture  of  barley- 
flour,  oats,  and  buckwheat  is  moistened  with  milk, 
and  the  dough  is  divided  into  little  pieces  or  oblong 
balls  shaped  like  an  olive  and  of  about  the  length  of 
the  little  finger.  At  meal  times,  which  must  be  very 
regular,  the  feeder  takes  three  hens  at  a  time,  ties 
them  together  by  the  legs,  puts  them  on  his  knees, 
and,  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  begins  by  making  them 
swallow  a  spoonful  of  water  or  whey;  then,  taking 
them  by  turns,  he  introduces  a  bolus  into  the  beak  of 
each  of  the  hens,  and  to  facilitate  the  descent  of  the 
large  pieces  he  presses  lightly  with  his  fingers,  pass- 
ing from  the  base  of  the  beak  down  to  the  crop. 
While  the  bird  that  has  been  fed  is  recovering  from 
its  painful  deglutition,  the  two  others  are  treated  in 
the  same  manner.  To  this  first  ball  are  added  a  sec- 
ond, a  third,  and  so  on  up  to  a  dozen  or  fifteen,  all 
put  into  the  beak  and  swallowed  willingly  or  other- 
wise. Their  crops  sufficiently  full,,  the  three  hens 
are  replaced  in  their  cages,  where  they  have  nothing 
to  do  but  sleep  and  peacefully  digest  their  copious 
meal.  The  others  go  through  the  same  treatment, 
three  by  three,  in  a  fixed  order. " 

"And  if  the  crop  is  stuffed  too  full  with  these 
twelve  or  fifteen  lumps  of  dough/'  asked  Jules, 
"may  not  the  bird  die,  choked  with  food?" 

"There  is  no  great  danger;  all  will  go  well.  Be- 
member  the  bird's  astonishing  powers  of  digestion 
and  the  experiments  I  related  to  you  on  this  sub- 
ject." 


60  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"It  is  true  that  a  gizzard  capable  of  getting  rid  of 
leaden  balls  stuck  with  needles  or  lancets  ought  eas- 
ily to  dispose  of  a  few  lumps  of  dough." 

"Besides,  heed  is  taken  not  to  go  beyond  the  fowl's 
digestive  powers.  A  halt  is  called  as  soon  as  the 
crop  appears  to  be  full.  It  takes  from  six  weeks  to 
two  months  of  this  treatment  to  bring  the  poulard  to 
perfection. ' ' 

"I  am  too  fond  of  the  poulard  served  up  as  a  choice 
roast  to  speak  ill  of  what  I  have  just  heard ;  never- 
theless I  will  admit,  Uncle,  that  this  barbarous  fat- 
tening process  is  repulsive  to  me.  I  pity  those  poor 
things  crouching  there  in  the  dark,  in  cells  where 
they  cannot  move,  and  forcibly  crammed  with  food 
until  almost  stuffed  to  death. ' ' 

"This  sympathy  proceeds  from  a  good  disposition, 
and  I  approve  of  it ;  but,  after  all,  what  is  to  be  done? 
Since  we  need  the  poulard,  we  must  needs  counte- 
nance the  process  by  which  the  hen  is  turned  into  the 
poulard.  Our  life  is  sustained  by  animal  life. 
Therefore  all  that  our  pity  can  do  is  to  lessen  as 
much  as  possible  the  unavoidable  suffering  and, 
above  all,  see  to  it  that  the  victims  of  our  needs  do 
not  become  also  the  victims  of  a  useless  and  stupid 
brutality." 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE   TUBKEY 

OF  all  our  barnyard  fowls,  the  turkey  is  the  most 
remarkable  except  the  peacock,  which  is  raised 
only  for  the  incomparable  richness  of  its  plumage. 
The  turkey-gobbler  has  his  head  and  neck  covered 

with  bare  bluish 
skin,  embellished 
behind  with  white 
nipples  and  in 
front  with  red 
ones,  which  swell 
and  hang  down 
in  large  pendants, 
resembling  seal- 
ing wax  in  color. 
Over  his  beak 
falls  a  piece  of 
flesh,  short  and  wrinkled  when  the  bird  is  in  repose, 
hanging  far  down  and  of  brilliant  coloring  when  he 
wishes  to  display  his  charms.  In  the  middle  of  his 
breast  is  fastened  an  unkempt  sort  of  mane.  To 
show  off,  he  bridles  up,  inflates  his  red  pendants, 
elongates  the  piece  of  flesh  over  his  beak,  throws  his 
head  back,  spreads  out  his  tail  feathers  in  the  shape 

61 


Turkey 


62  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

of  a  wheel,  and  lets  the  tips  of  his  half-opened  wings 
trail  on  the  ground.  In  this  grotesquely  proud  pos- 
ture he  turns  slowly  to  let  himself  be  admired  from 
all  sides.  From  time  to  time  a  low  sound,  puff '-puff , 
accompanied  by  a  sort  of  convulsive  stretching  of  the 
wings,  is  the  sign  of  his  supreme  satisfaction.  If 
some  noise,  especially  whistling,  disturbs  him,  he 
hauls  down  his  colors  and,  stretching  his  neck,  hastily 
gives  a  gloo-gloo-gloo  that  seems  to  burst  from  the 
very  depths  of  his  stomach. " 

"By  whistling  to  the  turkeys  feeding  in  the  fields, " 
said  Emile,  "I  can  make  them  repeat  their  cry  as 
often  as  I  want  to.  The  turkey  hens  do  not  say  gloo- 
gloo;  they  peep  plaintively." 

"This  fowl  is  a  recent  acquisition  of  our  poultry- 
yards,"  resumed  Uncle  Paul.  "It  came  to  us  from 
North  America  in  the  sixteenth  century.  As  Amer- 
ica was  called  West  Indies  in  contrast  with  the  Asian 
or  East  Indies,  the  bird  originating  in  the  forests 
of  the  New  World  was  called  the  Indian  cock  (coq 
d'Inde)  and  the  Indian  hen  (poule  d'Inde);  from 
which  have  come  the  French  terms  dindon  and  dinde. 
For  a  long  time  the  bird  spread  but  little;  it  was 
raised  merely  as  a  curious  rarity.  The  first  that  ap- 
peared on  the  table  was,  they  say,  at  the  wedding 
feast  of  Charles  IX. 

"The  turkey  lived,  and  still  lives  to-day,  in  a  wild 
state,  in  the  forests  of  the  United  States  of  North 
America.  Its  habits  are  described  by  a  celebrated 
naturalist,  Audubon,1  who,  with  his  gun  on  his  shoul- 

iThe  quoted  passages  are  from  Audubon's  "Ornithological  Biog- 


THE  TURKEY  63 

der,  his  notebook,  pencil,  and  brashes  in  his  game- 
bag,  traversed  the  most  secluded  solitudes  in  order 
to  observe,  paint,  and  describe  birds. 

66  'The  nest,'  he  tells  us,  ' which  consists  of  a  few 
withered  leaves,  is  placed  on  the  ground,  in  a  hollow 
scooped  out  by  the  side  of  a  log,  or  in  the  fallen  top 
of  a  dry  leafy  tree,  under  a  thicket  of  sumach  or 
briars,  or  a  few  feet  within  the  edge  of  a  cane-brake, 
but  always  in  a  dry  place.  .  .  .  When  depositing  her 
eggs,  the  female  always  approaches  the  nest  with 
extreme  caution,  scarcely  ever  taking  the  same 
course  twice,  and  when  about  to  leave  them  covers 
them  carefully  with  leaves,  so  that  it  is  very  difficult 
for  a  person  who  may  have  seen  the  bird  to  discover 
the  nest.  .  .  . 

' '  '  The  mother  will  not  leave  her  eggs  when  near 
hatching,  under  any  circumstances,  while  life  re- 
mains.    She  will  even  allow  an  enclosure  to  be  made 
around  her,  and  thus  suffer  imprisonment,  rather 
than  abandon  them.    I  once  witnessed  the  hatching 
of  a  brood  of  turkeys,  which  I  watched  for  the  pur- 
pose of  securing  them  together  with  the  parent.    I 
concealed  myself  on  the  ground  within  a  very  few 
feet,  and  saw  her  raise  herself  half  the  length  of  her 
legs,  look  anxiously  upon  the  eggs,  cluck  with  a  sound 
peculiar  to  the  mother  on  such  occasions,  carefully 
remove  each  half-empty  shell,  and  with  her  bill  caress 
and  dry  the  young  birds,  that  already  stood  tottering 
and  attempting  to  make  their  way  out  of  the  nest. 

raphy,"  vol.  I,  pp.  2-9,  and  are  here  reproduced  verbatim,  though 
very  freely  treated  by  the  French  author. — Translator. 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


Turkey 


Yes,  I  have  seen  this,  and  have  left  mother  and  young 
to  better  care  than  mine  could  have  proved — to  the 
care  of  their  Creator  and  mine.  I  have  seen  them 
all  emerge  from  the  shell,  and,  in  a  few  moments  af- 
ter, tumble,  roll, 
and  push  each 
other  forward, 
with  astonishing 
and  inscrutable 
instinct.'  " 

"That  's     the 
kind    of    hunter 
I  like,"  declared 
Jules;  "one  who 
knows  how  to  re- 
strain himself  at  the  touching  sight  of  a  nest  of 
young  birds.    What  did  you  say  his  name  was?" 
"Audubon." 

"I  sha'n't  forget  that  name  again." 
"And  that  will  be  right,  for  few  observers  have 
discoursed  on  birds  with  so  much  sympathetic  under- 
standing as  he. 

' '  I  continue  to  draw  from  his  account.  '  About  the 
beginning  of  October/  says  he,  'when  scarcely  any 
of  the  seeds  and  fruits  have  yet  fallen  from  the  trees, 
these  birds  assemble  in  flocks,  and  gradually  move 
towards  the  rich  bottom  lands  of  the  Ohio  and  Mis- 
sissippi. .  .  .  When  they  come  upon  a  river,  they  be- 
take themselves  to  the  highest  eminences,  and  there 
often  remain  a  whole  day,  or  sometimes  two,  as  if 
for  the  purpose  of  consultation.  During  this  time, 


THE  TURKEY  65 

the  males  are  heard  gobbling,  calling,  and  making 
much  ado,  and  are  seen  strutting  about,  as  if  to  raise 
their  courage  to  a  pitch  befitting  the  emergency. 
Even  the  females  and  young  assume  something  of  the 
same  pompous  demeanor,  spread  out  their  tails,  and 
run  round  each  other,  purring  loudly,  and  perform- 
ing extravagant  leaps.  At  length,  when  the  weather 
appears  settled,  and  all  around  is  quiet,  the  whole 
party  mounts  to  the  tops  of  the  highest  trees,  whence, 
at  a  signal,  consisting  of  a  single  cluck,  given  by  a 
leader,  the  flock  takes  flight  for  the  opposite  shore. 
The  old  and  fat  birds  easily  get  over,  even  should  the 
river  be  a  mile  in  breadth;  but  the  younger  and  less 
robust  frequently  fall  into  the  water — not  to  be 
drowned,  however,  as  might  be  imagined.  They 
bring  their  wings  close  to  their  body,  spread  out  their 
tail  as  a  support,  stretch  forward  their  neck,  and 
striking  out  their  legs  with  great  vigor,  proceed  rap- 
idly toward  the  shore ;  on  approaching  which,  should 
they  find  it  too  steep  for  landing,  they  cease  their 
exertions  for  a  few  moments,  float  down  the  stream 
until  they  come  to  an  accessible  part,  and  by  a  vio- 
lent effort  extricate  themselves  from  the  water.  It 
is  remarkable  that,  immediately  after  thus  crossing 
a  large  stream,  they  ramble  about  for  some  time, 
as  if  bewildered.  In  this  state,  they  fall  an  easy 
prey  to  the  hunter. 

"  '  Of  the  numerous  enemies  of  the  wild  turkey,  the 
most  formidable,  excepting  man,  are  the  lynx,  the 
snowy  owl,  and  the  Virginia  owl.  ...  As  turkeys  usu- 
ally roost  in  flocks,  on  naked  branches  of  trees,  they 


66  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

are  easily  discovered  by  their  enemies,  the  owls, 
which,  on  silent  wing,  approach  and  hover  around 
them  for  the  purpose  of  reconnoitering.  This,  how- 
ever, is  rarely  done  without  being  discovered,  and 
a  single  cluck  from  one  of  the  turkeys  announces  to 
the  whole  party  the  approach  of  the  murderer. 
They  instantly  start  upon  their  legs,  and  watch  the 
motions  of  the  owl,  which,  selecting  one  as  its  victim, 
comes  down  upon  it  like  an  arrow,  and  would  inevit- 
ably secure  the  turkey,  did  not  the  latter  at  that  mo- 
ment lower  its  head,  stoop,  and  spread  its  tail  in  an 
inverted  manner  over  its  back,  by  which  action  the 
aggressor  is  met  by  a  smooth  inclined  plane,  along 
which  it  glances  without  hurting  the  turkey;  imme- 
diately after  which  the  latter  drops  to  the  ground, 
and  thus  escapes,  merely  with  the  loss  of  a  few  feath- 
ers. '  " 

' l  To  make  a  breastplate  of  the  tail  spread  out  like 
a  wheel  is  a  very  ingenious  means  of  defense, "  re- 
marked Emile.  "The  turkey  is  not  so  foolish  as 
people  think. ' ' 

"It  is  so  far  from  being  foolish  that  we  have  not  in 
the  poultry-yard  a  more  impassioned  lover  of  liberty. 
In  their  native  country  turkeys  wander  through  the 
great  woods  from  morning  to  night  in  untiring 
search  of  insects  and  fat  larvae,  fruit  and  seeds  of  all 
kinds,  acorns  and  nuts  especially,  of  which  they  are 
very  fond.  Thus  the  stay-at-home  habits  of  the 
poultry-yard  do  not  suit  them  at  all.  They  must 
have  the  open  air  of  the  fields  and  the  exercise  of 
long  walks.  Moors,  woods,  hills  abounding  in  grass- 


THE  TURKEY  67 

hoppers,  are  their  favorite  haunts.  Their  timid  na- 
ture makes  them  very  docile.  A  child  armed  with  a 
long  switch  is  enough  to  lead  the  flock  to  the  fields, 
however  numerous  it  may  be.  Then,  step  by  step, 
to-day  in  one  direction,  to-morrow  in  another,  the 
flock  explores  the  stubble  and  gleans  the  grain  fallen 
from  the  ear,  traverses  the  grassy  meadows  where 
the  crickets  leap,  and  penetrates  the  woods  where  is 
found  abundant  pasturage  of  chestnuts,  beechnuts, 
and  acorns. 

*  '  In  spite  of  these  rambles  afield,  which  remind  it  a 
little  of  the  wandering  life  it  leads  in  the  immense 
forests  of  its  native  country,  the  turkey  never  ac- 
quires in  domesticity  the  plumpness  of  body  and 
richness  of  plumage  that  belong  to  it  in  its  free  state. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that,  contrary  to  all  our  expe- 
rience with  other  animals,  which  have  improved  un- 
der human  care  and  have  increased  in  size,  the  tur- 
key alone  has  degenerated  in  our  hands,  as  if  preyed 
upon  by  an  ineradicable  regret  for  its  native  forests, 
where  bellows  the  buffalo,  chased  by  the  red-skinned 
Indian.  The  domestic  turkey  is  not  much  more  than 
half  as  large  as  the  wild  one.  And  then  what  a  dif- 
ference in  the  plumage !  Our  poultry-yard  fowl  is 
of  a  uniform  black  or  of  a  dull  red,  sometimes  white. 
The  bird  of  the  wooded  solitudes  of  the  New  World 
is  splendid  in  costume.  Bronzed  brown  predom- 
inates, but  the  neck,  throat,  and  back  have,  in  the 
light,  metallic  reflections;  and  as  the  plumage  is 
clearly  imbricated,  the  whole  gives  the  appearance 
of  scale  armor  in  gold  and  steel.  Furthermore,  the 


68  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

large  wing-feathers  have  a  pure  white  spot  on  the 
tip." 

"From  that  description, "  said  Jules,  "I  see  well 
enough  that  the  bird  has  not  gained  by  living  with 
us." 

"Nor  has  its  flesh  gained  in  nutritive  quality,  that 
of  the  wild  turkey  being  considered  incomparably 
superior. ' ' 

"It  is  just  the  opposite  with  the  common  hen,"  ob- 
served Louis.  ' '  Originally  as  small  as  the  partridge 
and  with  as  little  flesh,  it  has  developed  into  the  fat 
poulard. ' ' 

"Such  as  it  is,"  said  Uncle  Paul,  "the  domestic 
turkey  is  none  the  less,  next  to  the  common  fowl,  the 
most  valuable  acquisition  of  the  poultry-yard.  Let 
us  now  turn  our  attention  to  it. 

"The  laying  of  its  eggs  takes  place  in  April,  when 
about  twenty  to  a  nest  are  laid,  of  a  dull  white  with 
reddish  spots.  These  eggs  are  scarcely  ever  used  as 
food;  not  that  they  are  bad — far  from  it — but  they 
are  too  precious  and  too  few  to  be  converted  into 
omelets.  As  fast  as  the  turkey-hen  lays  them  they 
are  gathered  and  kept  in  a  basket  lined  with  hay  or 
old  rags  until  the  time  for  setting.  The  gathering 
of  these  eggs  is  not  always  easy.  Faithful  to  her 
wild  habits,  the  turkey-hen  does  not  willingly  accept 
the  poultry-house  nest.  She  steals  away  to  lay  her 
eggs  in  neighboring  straw-ricks,  underbrush,  and 
hedges.  One  must  watch  her  proceedings  therefore, 
foil  her  ruses,  and  from  time  to  time  visit  her  favor- 
ite haunts. 


THE  TURKEY  69 

"  Incubation  presents  no  difficulties,  the  female 
turkey  being  so  good  a  brooder.  Like  the  common 
hen,  she  devotes  herself  to  her  eggs  with  passionate 
love ;  like  the  hen,  too,  while  setting  she  forgets  her 
food,  so  that  she  must  be  taken  off  the  nest  every  day 
and  made  to  eat  and  drink,  as  otherwise  she  might 
let  herself  die  of  hunger.  The  little  ones  hatch  at 
the  end  of  thirty  days.  There  is  nothing  more  deli- 
cate than  these  new-born  chicks ;  the  least  cold  chills 
them,  a  shower  of  rain  is  fatal  to  them,  even  the  dew 
imperils  their  lives,  and  a  hot  sun  kills  them  in  a 
trice.  If  there  is  delay  in  feeding,  and  the  mother, 
of  ponderous  bulk,  awkwardly  plants  her  feet  in  the 
midst  of  her  numerous  offspring,  then  the  greedy 
little  things  are  liable  to  be  trampled  on  and  crushed 
to  death.  Another  danger  awaits  them  at  the  age  of 
two  or  three  months.  Young  turkeys  hatch  with  the 
heads  covered  with  down,  with  no  sign  of  the  red  nip- 
ples that  will  ornament  them  later.  Within  two  or 
three  months  these  nipples,  real  collars,  and  pend- 
ants jof  coral  begin  to  show ;  they  say  then  that  the 
red  is  starting.  At  this  time  there  takes  place  in 
the  bird  a  painful  change  which  to  many  is  mortal, 
especially  in  a  damp  season.  To  succor  the  sick 
ones,  they  are  made  to  swallow  a  few  mouthfuls  of 
warm  wine.  All  things  considered,  there  are  num- 
berless chances  of  death  for  the  turkey-hen's  brood. 
Add  to  that  the  small  number  of  eggs  laid,  and  we 
can  understand  why,  in  spite  of  its  great  utility,  the 
turkey  is  less  common  than  the  ordinary  fowl. 

uAudubon  has  told  us  that  when,  from  his  con- 


70  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

cealment  in  the  bushes,  he  witnessed  the  mother  tur- 
key's anxious  procedure,  the  young  ones  left  the  nest 
almost  as  soon  as  the  shell  was  broken.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  mother  warms  and  dries  them  under  her 
breast;  then,  trotting  and  tumbling,  they  abandon 
the  bed  of  leaves,  never  to  return.  In  domesticity  it 
is  much  the  same ;  no  sooner  are  they  hatched  than 
the  little  turkeys  leave  the  nest  and  thenceforth  have 
no  other  shelter  than  the  cover  of  their  mother,  who 
protects  them  under  her  wings  exactly  as  the  hen 
protects  her  brood.  She  also  takes  the  same  care  of 
her  family,  exercises  the  same  vigilance  in  foreseeing 
danger,  shows  the  same  audacity  in  coping  with  the 
bird  of  prey.  For  the  first  few  days  the  refuge  af- 
forded by  the  wide  and  deep  coop,  so  useful  to  the 
little  chickens,  is  not  less  useful  to  the  young  turkeys. 
The  hen-turkey  is  put  there  with  choice  provisions, 
and  the  little  ones  are  free  to  come  and  go  as  they 
please.  These  provisions  consist  of  a  pap  similar  to 
that  given  to  young  chickens  and  composed  of  bread- 
crumbs, curds,  chopped  salad  leaves  and  nettles,  a 
little  bran,  and  hard-boiled  eggs.  Later  comes 
grain,  oats  in  particular.  When  the  weather  is  fine 
the  coop  is  put  out  of  doors  in  a  sunny  spot,  on  very 
dry  ground,  and  the  brood  is  allowed  to  play  about 
for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  Great 
care  must  be  taken  to  avoid  rain,  dew,  and  dampness ; 
a  wet  turkey  chick  is  in  grave  danger. 

"The  more  delicate  the  bird  at  the  beginning,  the 
more  robust  it  is  when  it  has  successfully  passed  the 


THE  TURKEY  71 

period  called  the  red.  It  no  longer  needs  the  shelter 
of  the  poultry-house  at  night.  However  cold  it  may 
be,  it  sleeps  in  the  open  air,  roosting  on  the  branches 
of  some  dead  tree  or  on  a  perch  fixed  to  the  wall. 
Vainly  does  the  north  wind  whistle  and  the  frost  nip ; 
the  turkey  rests  peacefully  in  the  manner  of  its  fel- 
lows in  the  woods  of  America,  and  without  fear  lest  a 
snow-owl  come  to  disturb  its  slumbers  and  compel 
it  to  spread  its  tail  quickly  and  make  a  breastplate 
against  the  marauder's  talons. 

"I  will  finish  this  story  with  a  few  words  on  a  cu- 
rious method  of  fattening  used  in  certain  countries, 
especially  in  Provence,  Morvan,  and  Flanders. 
Over  and  above  the  usual  food  that  fattening  birds 
eat  voluntarily,  they  force  both  the  gobbler  and  the 
hen  to  swallow  whole  nuts. ' ' 

4  *  Whole,  but  without  the  shell  ?"  queried  Emile. 

"No,  my  friend;  with  the  shell  too;  in  fact,  nuts 
just  as  the  tree  bears  them." 

"A  aut  with  the  shell,  no  matter  how  small,  must 
make  a  hard  mouthful  to  swallow,  and  still  harder  to 
digest. " 

"I  don't  deny  it;  but  finally,  with  the  finger  push- 
ing the  nut  a  little  into  the  throat,  and  the  hand 
gently  pressing  from  the  base  of  the  beak  to  the  crop, 
the  voluminous  mouthful  ends  by  going  down,  not 
without  some  grimaces  on  the  part  of  the  bird." 

"And  reason  enough  for  them!"  exclaimed  Emile. 

"One  nut  would  be  nothing;  but  that  is  not  all. 
The  next  day  they  force  it  to  swallow  two,  the  next 


72  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

three,  and  so  on,  augmenting  the  dose  each  day.  In 
Provence  they  stop  at  forty  nuts  a  day;  elsewhere 
they  go  on  to  a  hundred. ' ' 

"And  the  turkey  does  not  die,  stuffed  thus  with 
nuts  as  large  and  hard  as  stones  ? ' '  asked  Jules. 

"You  would  be  pleased  to  see  how  the  bird  pros- 
pers and  fattens  on  food  that  would  choke  any  other 
creature." 

"With  a  hundred  nuts  in  its  crop,  or  even  only 
forty,"  was  Louis's  comment,  "the  turkey  can't  be 
very  comfortable." 

"They  are  not  swallowed  all  at  one  time,  but  in 
portions  during  the  day." 

"No  matter,"  persisted  Jules;  "if  you  hadn't  al- 
ready told  us,  according  to  that  learned  Italian — 
Wait  a  minute ;  what  was  his  name  ? 9 ' 

"The  abbot  Spallanzani." 

"Yes,  the  abbot  Spallanzani.  If  you  hadn't  told 
us  about  his  experiments  and  the  wonderful  power  of 
the  gizzard,  I  should  never  be  able  to  understand  how 
a  turkey  could  manage  to  digest  nuts,  shell  and  all, 
up  to  forty  and  even  a  hundred  a  day." 

"Everything  is  reduced  to  a  sort  of  soup  in  the 
gizzard — shells  and  kernels;  all  becomes  as  soft  as 
butter;  and  the  bird,  fat  as  a  pig,  finally  serves  as 
the  chief  dish  at  the  Christmas  feast." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   GUINEA-FOWL 

upon  a  time —  That  begins,  you  see,  like 
the  stories  of  Cinderella  and  of  the  Ass 's  Skin. 
Are  we  going  to  spend  our  time  in  the  recital  of  the 
wonders  of  some  fairy  godmother?  Not  at  all.  I 
am  simply  going  to  tell  you  the  story  of  the  guinea- 
fowl;  and  this  story  happens  to  be  connected,  in  its 
first  part,  with  a  certain  fable  told  thousands  and 
thousands  of  years  ago,  in  the  evening  by  the  fire- 
side, to  little  boys,  just  as  to-day  you  are  told  the 
tragic  adventures  of  Hop  o'  my  Thumb  with  the 
Ogre.  I  start  again  then. 

"In  that  corner  of  the  world  known  as  Greece,  a 
corner  so  illustrious  in  ages  long  past,  there  was  once 
upon  a  time  a  valiant  young  man,  son  of  the  king  of 
the  country,  whose  favorite  occupation  was  hunting. 
I  say  occupation  and  not  recreation,  because  in  those 
hard  times  when  industrial  pursuits  were  just  begin- 
ning, the  country  was  overrun  with  wild  animals 
from  which  one  had  constantly  to  defend  oneself  and 
one's  flock,  only  recently  herded  together  under  the 
shepherd's  crook.  At  the  risk  of  their  own  lives 
brave  men  undertook  this  harsh  duty.  Many  suc- 
cumbed to  it,  some  acquired  renown  great  enough  to 
survive  the  lapse  of  centuries  and  come  down  to  our 

73 


74  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

time.  Surrounded  by  a  heroic  aureole,  the  names  of 
these  ancient  slayers  of  monsters  have  reached  us. 
Such  is  the  name  of  Meleager,  borne  by  the  young 
man  I  just  mentioned. 

* l  The  skin  of  a  wild  beast  on  his  back  for  clothing, 
in  his  hand  a  stout  stake  sharpened  to  a  point  and 
hardened  in  the  fire,  on  his  shoulder  a  quiver  full  of 
arrows  pointed  with  little  sharp  stones,  in  his  belt  a 
bludgeon  of  hard  wood  and  a  stone  hatchet  sharp- 
ened on  the  sandstone,  the  ardent  hunter  ranged  over 
the  country,  tracking  the  formidable  animals  to  their 
very  lairs  in  dark  forests  and  mountain  caves  over- 
grown with  an  impenetrable  barrier  of  reeds. ' ' 

"Why  didn't  those  men,"  asked  Emile,  "if  they 
had  to  fight  such  ferocious  animals,  use  something 
better  than  sharpened  sticks  and  stone-pointed  ar- 
rows ?  Why  did  n  't  they  take  regular  firearms  I ' ' 

"For  the  very  best  of  reasons:  metals  were  un- 
known, and  iron,  one  of  the  latest  to  be  discovered, 
was  not  used  by  man  until  long  after  this  time.  Men 
armed  themselves,  therefore,  as  best  they  could,  with 
the  point  of  a  bone  or  the  sharp  edge  of  a  broken 
stone.'' 

"I  understand,  then,"  said  Louis,  "how  danger- 
ous such  hunts  must  have  been,  and  how  courageous 
the  hunters.  To-day  one  would  cut  a  sorry  figure  at- 
tacking a  wolf  with  only  a  sharpened  stake  for  a 
weapon." 

'  '  And  how  would  it  be  if  one  found  oneself  face  to 
face  with  the  wild  boar  of  which  Meleager  rid  the 
country?  According  to  the  old  writers  who  handed 


THE  GUINEA-FOWL  75 

down  the  affair  to  us,  it  was  an  animal  such  as  had 
never  been  seen  before  and  will  never  be  seen  again. 
Heaven,  in  its  wrath,  had  sent  it  to  ravage  the  fields. 
It  surpassed  in  size,  they  say,  the  strongest  bulls. 
From  its  bloodshot  eyes  lightning  darted;  from  its 
horrible  mouth  exhaled  a  fiery  breath  that  instantly 
withered  the  leaves  of  trees ;  with  a  few  blows  of  its 
snout  it  uprooted  oaks ;  with  its  tusks,  more  formid- 
able than  the  elephant's,  it  ripped  up  the  earth  and 
sent  great  masses  of  rock  flying  like  so  much  dust. 
What  become  of  the  poor  people  when  this  brute 
rushed  at  them  in  all  its  fury?  They  all  fled,  wild 
with  terror,  their  hands  upraised  to  heaven,  their 
voices  choked  with  fright." 

" There  must  be  some  exaggeration  there,"  inter- 
posed Louis.  "A  wild  boar  does  not  grow  to  such 
a  size  and  such  strength." 

"Yes,  ceftainly,  there  is  exaggeration  in  this  as 
in  many  other  stories  in  which  the  real  facts,  coming 
down  through  long  centuries,  finally  become  greatly 
magnified  and  take  on  most  marvelous  additions. 
Let  us  bring  things  back  to  something  like  probabil- 
ity. An  enormous  wild  boar  sets  the  country  in  a 
panic.  For  a  people  unprovided  with  good  weapons 
and  having  no  refuge  but  fragile  huts  of  reed,  it  must 
be  a  very  dangerous  situation. 

"To  exorcise  the  common  peril,  Meleager  calls  to- 
gether the  best  men  in  the  neighborhood  and  places 
himself  at  the  head  of  the  hunters,  among  whom  are 
to  be  found  two  of  his  uncles,  his  mother's  brothers, 
violent  men  and  very  jealous  of  the  fame  their 


76  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

nephew  has  already  acquired  by  his  valorous  ex- 
ploits. They  go  to  meet  the  monster.  The  first  to 
approach  the  beast  pay  for  their  temerity  with  their 
lives.  Already  several  have  been  made  to  bite  the 
dust,  without  any  result,  when  Meleager,  more  fortu- 
nate and  no  doubt  also  more  skilful,  succeeds  in  stab- 
bing the  beast  with  his  stake.  Victory  is  his,  and  the 
boar  should  belong  to  him,  or  at  least  the  head,  as  a 
trophy  of  his  courage ;  but  his  uncles,  furious  at  their 
nephew's  acquisition  of  a  new  title  to  fame  in  addi- 
tion to  so  many  former  ones,  do  not  look  at  it  in  that 
light.  The  dispute  becomes  heated,  and,  as  usual  in 
those  brutal  times,  the  disputants  pass  quickly  from 
argument  to  blows.  Meleager,  beside  himself  with 
wrath,  kills  his  two  uncles  with  the  same  stake  that 
has  drunk  the  blood  of  the  beast." 

' '  Oh,  wretched  man ! ' '  cried  Jules. 

"Evil  overtook  him.  On  hearing  of  the  death  of 
her  two  brothers,  Meleager 's  mother  loses  her  reason 
from  grief.  She  draws  from  a  cupboard,  where  she 
has  kept  it  with  the  greatest  care,  a  firebrand  black- 
ened at  one  end.  With  a  hand  trembling  with  an- 
guish, she  takes  this  firebrand,  this  precious  fire- 
brand for  which  hitherto  she  would  have  given  her 
very  eyes,  life  itself,  and  throws  it  into  the  fire,  where 
it  is  straightway  consumed.  Ah,  what  has  she  done, 
the  unhappy  mother,  what  has  she  done !  At  that 
moment  her  son  Meleager  is  dying,  consumed  by  an 
inner  fire ;  he  is  dying,  he  is  dead,  for  the  firebrand 
has  just  given  its  last  flicker.  In  her  despair  the 
poor  mother  kills  herself. 


THE  GUINEA-FOWL  77 

"The  connection  between  this  firebrand  that  was 
reduced  to  ashes  and  Meleager 's  end  escapes  you;  I 
hasten  to  throw  some  light  on  this  point.  I  will  tell 
you  then  that  at  Meleager's  birth  a  firebrand  sud- 
denly sprang  from  beneath  the  ground  and  began  to 
burn  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  while  a  voice  from 
the  depths,  like  an  infernal  rumbling,  said:  'This 
child  will  live  until  the  firebrand  is  consumed.'  " 

"Why,  this  is  nothing  but  a  fairy  tale  I"  Jules  ex- 
claimed. 

"Very  true.  History  here  gives  place  to  fable. 
Now  the  firebrand  was  burning  on  the  floor  and 
threatened  soon  to  be  entirely  consumed.  They  has- 
tened to  pick  it  up  and  extinguish  it  with  water. 
From  that  time  the  mother  preserved  it  with  the 
greatest  care,  as  the  most  precious  thing  she  had, 
persuaded  that  her  son  would  live  to  a  great  age, 
when,  crazed  with  grief  at  the  news  of  her  brothers ' 
death,  she  threw  it  into  the  fire.  As  the  subterra- 
nean voice  had  said,  the  moment  the  firebrand  was 
consumed  Meleager  succumbed,  devoured  by  an  inner 
fire." 

"It  's  a  good  story,"  was  Emile's  comment,  "but 
I  don't  at  all  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  the  guinea- 
fowl." 

"You  will  see  in  a  minute,"  his  uncle  reassured 
him.  "Inconsolable  at  the  death  of  their  brother, 
Meleager 's  sisters  unceasingly  shed  tears  that  rolled 
like  pearls  over  their  mourning  garments ;  night  and 
day  they  filled  the  house  with  their  distressing  sobs. 
Heaven  had  pity  on  them  and  changed  them  into 


78  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

birds  until  then  unknown,  into  guinea-hens,  whose 
plumage  is  still  sprinkled  with  the  tears  of  the  un- 
happy girls,  and  whose  unceasing  cries  are  the  con- 
tinuation of  their  sobs.  Such,  according  to  the  an- 
cients, is  the  origin  of  guinea-fowls,  called  by  them 
Meleagridce  in  honor  of  the  hero  of  the  legend. 

"The  childish  imagination  of  the  ancients  elab- 
orated this  story  of  the  metamorphosis  of  Meleager's 
sisters  out  of  the  two  most  prominent  traits  of  the 
guinea-fowl,  its  plumage  and  its  cry.  On  a  back- 
ground of  bluish  gray,  the  color  of  mourning,  are 
sprinkled  innumerable  round  white  spots.  Those 
are  the  tears,  running  in  pearly  drops  over  the  bird 
as  they  ran  over  the  somber  garments  of  the  incon- 
solable sisters.  The  guinea-fowl's  voice  is  a  dis- 
cordant, continuous,  unendurable  cry,  in  which  the 
fable  recognizes,  unquestioningly,  the  painful  sobs 
of  Meleager's  sisters." 

1  ' Those  resemblances  are  ingenious,"  said  Louis, 
"but  they  do  not  take  the  place  of  real  knowledge  of 
the  guinea-fowl's  origin.  Not  even  in  those  old  days 
could  every  one  have  believed  in  the  singular  tale  you 
have  just  told  us." 

"Many  were  satisfied  with  it  and  sought  no  fur- 
ther information.  And  even  in  our  day,  my  friend, 
in  this  so-called  enlightened  century,  is  it  so  unusual 
that  the  more  absurd  a  thing  is  the  more  easily  it 
takes  root  in  our  minds!  Many  were  satisfied  with 
the  story,  but  the  wise  knew  well  that  the  bird  came 
to  us  from  Africa,  and  for  that  reason  called  it  the 
African  fowl. 


THE  GUINEA-FOWL  79 

"  These  old  names  are  now  out  of  use  and  are  re- 
placed by  the  word  guinea-fowl,  or  pintade,  which 
some,  not  without  reason  write  peintade  (painted). 
In  fact,  the  white  spots,  spread  over  the  bluish-gray 
ground  of  the  plumage,  are  so  round  and  so  regu- 
larly distributed  that  one  might  say  they  were  traced 
with  a  brush  by  a  painter.  The  bird  looks  painted; 
hence  its  name. 

' '  The  guinea-fowl  has  rounded  outlines.  Its  short 
wings,  its  drooping  tail,  and  the  general  arrangement 
of  the  feathers  on 
its  back  give  it  a  de- 
formed appearance, 
which  is  misleading, 
for  when  plucked 
the  bird  shows  none 
of  its  former  gib- 
bosity. The  neck  is 
lank.  Imitating  in  that  respect  its  compatriot, 
the  camel,  the  guinea-fowl  straightens  it  up  and 
stretches  it  out  when  it  runs  away,  and  then  it 
looks  like  a  rolling  ball.  The  head  is  small  and 
partly  bald,  like  the  turkey's.  Two  wattles,  tinted 
red  and  blue,  hang  from  the  base  of  the  beak.  The 
top  of  the  skull  is  protected  by  dry  skin,  which  rises 
in  the  shape  of  a  helmet  and  is  perhaps  not  without 
use  when  in  their  quarrelsome  moods  the  guinea- 
fowls  have  a  trial  of  skill  in  splitting  one  another's 
head  with  blows  of  the  beak. 

"Many  qualities  recommend  this  bird  to  our  no- 
tice. The  eggs  are  excellent  and  numerous,  a  hun- 


80  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

dred  and  more  annually.  They  are  a  little  smaller 
than  the  hen 's,  with  remarkably  thick  shells  of  a  yel- 
lowish or  dull  reddish  color.  Its  flesh  is  superior, 
veritable  game,  nearly  equal  to  that  of  the  pheasant 
and  partridge ;  and  yet  the  guinea-fowl  is  rare  almost 
everywhere.  Three  great  faults  are  the  reason:  its 
cry,  its  quarrelsome  disposition,  and  its  wandering 
habits. 

4  *  First,  its  cry.  He  who  has  not  had,  for  hours 
and  hours,  his  ear  tortured  by  the  satanic  music  of 
the  bird  is  ignorant  of  one  of  the  most  irritating  of 
minor  torments.  The  rasping  of  a  file  upon  the  teeth 
of  a  saw  in  process  of  sharpening,  the  discordant 
screech  of  a  strangling  cat,  the  final  roulade  of  a 
braying  donkey,  are  trifles  in  comparison.  And  this 
charivari  goes  on  from  morning  to  night  with  a  re- 
enforcement  of  the  orchestra  when  the  weather  is 
about  to  change  or  something  unexpected  happens 
to  worry  the  performers.  If  one  is  not  blessed  with 
a  special  ear,  if  the  head  is  not  void  of  all  preoccupa- 
tion, one  simply  cannot  stand  this  deafening  racket. 
They  say  the  guinea-hens  have  inherited  the  wail- 
ings  of  Meleager's  sisters;  but  I  like  to  think  that 
the  poor  girls  put  a  little  more  reserve  into  the  heart- 
breaking expression  of  their  grief.  In  short,  never 
tell  Uncle  Paul  to  have  guinea-hens  under  his  win- 
dow; he  would  flee  to  the  farthest  depths  of  the 
forest,  never  to  return.  There  are  others,  and  they 
are  numerous,  whose  nerves  are  irritated  just  as 
much  by  the  insufferable  bird;  that  is  why  the 


THE  GUINEA-FOWL  81 

guinea-fowl  is  rare  in  poultry-yards,  and  by  reason 
of  its  music  escapes  the  spit. 

*  '  Second,  its  love  of  fighting.  The  parchment  hel- 
met standing  up  on  top  of  the  head  betrays  at  the 
first  glance  the  quarrelsome  mania  of  the  bird.  The 
guinea-fowl  is  the  bully  of  the  poultry-yard ;  it  dom- 
ineers over  the  others  and  for  a  mere  nothing  will 
pick  a  quarrel.  Hens  and  chickens  are  tormented 
for  the  possession  of  a  grain  of  oats ;  the  cock  must 
on  all  occasions  have  a  trial  of  skill  with  the  beak  to 
make  his  and  his  family's  rights  respected;  the  tur- 
key-gobbler himself,  the  burly  gobbler,  must  reckon 
with  it.  The  guinea-cock,  quick  at  attack,  delivers 
ten  assaults  and  twenty  blows  of  the  beak  before  his 
i>ig  adversary  can  put  himself  on  the  defensive. 
When  at  last  the  gobbler  parries  and  thrusts,  the  tur- 
bulent aggressor  makes  use  of  tactics  that  he  seems 
to  have  learned  from  his  compatriot,  the  Arab.  He 
turns  his  back  on  the  enemy,  flees  in  haste,  then 
abruptly  returns  to  the  charge  and  hurls  himself 
suddenly  on  the  gobbler  at  a  moment  when  the  latter 
is  off  his  guard.  The  beak  having  dealt  its  blow, 
the  flight  recommences.  Nearly  always  the  gobbler 
is  forced  to  capitulate.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  what 
sort  of  harmony  must  prevail  in  a  poultry-yard  har- 
boring such  disturbers  of  the  peace. 

1 1  Third,  its  wanderlust.  The  narrow  limits  of  the 
poultry-yard  are  irksome  to  guinea-fowls.  They  are 
glad  enough  to  be  on  hand  at  feeding  time,  but,  their 
crops  once  full,  they  must  have  a  long  walk  across 


82  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

country.  Off  they  go,  always  by  themselves,  without 
ever  admitting  the  common  poultry  to  their  ranks. 
To  the  music  of  its  harsh  chatter  the  flock  goes  on 
from  one  hedge  to  another,  one  bush  to  the  next, 
snapping  up  insects.  The  distraction  of  the  hunt 
makes  them  forget  distance,  and  soon  they  are  be- 
yond supervision.  Let  a  dog  appear,  and  these  half- 
tamed  game-birds  are  seized  with  a  foolish  panic. 
They  fly  in  all  directions,  with  a  cry  of  alarm  re- 
sembling the  harsh  note  of  a  rattle.  The  disbanded 
flock  will  have  much  trouble  in  getting  together 
again;  perhaps  when  they  do  come  together  one  or 
two  will  be  missing.  Another  inconvenience  no  less 
grave :  during  these  excursions  the  eggs  are  laid  al- 
most anywhere,  in  the  wheat-field,  on  the  broad 
meadow,  amid  the  tangled  underbrush.  Except  by 
attentive  watching  at  the  moment  of  laying,  it  would 
take  a  sharp  eye  to  find  the-nest  of  the  suspected  bird. 
"The  guinea-hen  broods  in  about  the  same  manner 
as  the  common  hen,  but  it  is  preferable  to  set  the 
eggs  under  a  common  hen ;  she  will  perform  the  im- 
posed task  perfectly  and  make  no  distinction  between 
her  own  eggs  and  those  of  a  stranger.  The  hatching 
takes  place  about  the  twenty-eighth  or  thirtieth  day. 
On  coming  out  of  the  shell,  the  little  guinea-chicks 
can  walk  and  eat  alone  quite  as  well  as  the  other 
chickens.  They  need  warmth  and  assiduous  care. 
The  first  week  they  are  fed  with  a  pap  of  bread- 
crumbs and  hard-boiled  eggs,  to  which  are  added 
ants'  eggs  or  at  least  a  little  chopped  meat.  After 
that  they  have  the  same  diet  as  ordinary  chickens. 


THE  GUINEA-FOWL  83 

Like  young  turkeys  they  pass  through  a  critical  pe- 
riod, the  time  when  the  red  begins  to  show  on  the 
bald  skin  of  the  head.  To  pass  through  it  well,  the 
best  way  is  to  give  them  strengthening  food  and 
shelter  them  from  all  dampness. " 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  PALMIPEDES 

"  flpHE  workman  is  known  by  his  tools,  and  by  the 
JL  tools  of  the  feathered  creatures — that  is  to  say, 
their  beaks  and  claws — their  way  of  life  is  not  less 
easily  recognized.  If  it  were  not  already  known  to 
us,  who  could  fail  to  infer  the  carnivorous  disposi- 
tion of  the  hawk  from  the  shape  of  its  beak — short, 

sharp,  and  hooked — 
and  from  the  structure 
of  its  talons,  armed  as 
they  are  with  pointed 
nails  grooved  under- 
neath with  a  narrow 

^      ^<i^w  >r*^  channel  after  the  man- 

ner of  certain  daggers, 
_  to  facilitate  the  flow  of 

blood  from  the  wound? 

Does  it  call  for  any  extraordinary  perspicacity  to 
recognize,  in  the  heron's  long  legs,  veritable  stilts 
which  enable  it  to  traverse,  step  by  step,  without 
getting  wet,  the  inundated  flats,  as  does  the  hunter 
in  his  long,  waterproof  marsh  boots?  And  then, 
that  long  beak,  pointed  like  a  nail,  does  it  tell  us 
nothing?  Does  it  not  say  that  the  bird  bores  deep 

84 


THE  PALMIPEDES 


85 


in  the  tufts  of  rushes  and  in  the  soft  mud  to  pull 
out  reptiles  and  worms? " 

"It  is  the  heron,"  put  in  Emile,  "that  the  fable 
tells  about  when  it  says : 

"The  long-necked,  long-beaked  heron  went  walking; 
On  its  stilt-like  legs  one  day  it  went  stalking." 

"Yes,"  said  Uncle  Paul,  "that  is  the  bird.  Ev- 
erything about  the  heron  is  long — legs,  beak,  neck. 
The  length  of  its  legs 
enables  the  bird  to  ex- 
plore the  swamp  at  its 
ease  all  day  long  with- 
out wetting  a  feather; 
its  length  of  neck  is 
needed  that  it  may 
reach  the  ground  with- 
out stooping;  and  the 
long  beak  is  indispen- 
sable for  burrowing  in 
the  tall  tufts  of  grass  where  the  reptile  lurks,  and 
for  probing  the  mud  where  the  worm  buries  itself." 

"I  begin  to  see  now,"  said  Jules,  "how  the  char- 
acter of  a  bird  may  be  judged  from  its  shape.  The 
heron  bears  its  trade  stamped  on  its  form." 

"The  duck,  in  its  turn,  makes  an  equally  unmis- 
takable announcement.  Let  us  forget  its  habits, 
which  are  so  familiar  to  us,  and  try  to  rediscover 
them  in  the  shape  of  the  legs  and  beak. 

"The  duck's  beak  is  very  wide  and  flat,  and  round 
at  the  end.  Shall  we  compare  it  with  the  hen's  beak, 


Heron 


86  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

a  slender  pair  of  pincers  that  snaps  up  seeds  and  ker- 
nels one  by  one?  Comparison  is  impossible.  Do 
we  see  there  a  tool  working  in  the  manner  of  the 
heron 's  pointed  probe?  Still  less.  Shall  we  make 
it  the  equivalent  of  the  bloody  hooked  beak  of  the 
bird  of  prey  1  No  one  would  dream  of  such  a  thing, 
so  great  is  the  difference.  But  one  sees  at  once  in 
this  wide,  rounded  beak  a  spoon  shaped  expressly  for 
scooping  up  food  from  the  water,  just  as  our  table- 
spoons enable  us  to  take  out  pieces  of  bread  or  lumps 
of  rice  swimming  in  a  thin  soup.  The  duck  dabbles, 
then:  it  dips  up  water  in  large  spoonfuls — that  is 
to  say,  in  beakfuls — and  seeks  its  food  therein.  It  is 
a  soup  of  the  thinnest  sort  and,  in  itself,  of  no  nu- 
tritive value.  Consequently  the  liquid  that  fills  the 
bird's  mandible  must  be  rejected,  but  at  the  same 
time  it  must  be  drained  out  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
leave  behind  what  little*  alimentary  matter  it  may 
contain.  For  this  purpose  the  edges  of  the  beak  are 
fringed  with  a  row  of  thin,  short  blades  which  let  the 
liquid  run  out  when  the  bird  has  once  filled  its 
mouth. " 

"That  's  an  ingenious  way  to  eat,"  remarked 
Jules.  "In  order  to  snap  up  what  it  takes  a  fancy 
to,  perhaps  a  tadpole,  or  a  little  water  shell,  or  a 
worm,  the  duck  is  obliged  to  fill  its  beak  with  water. 
To  swallow  the  whole  mouthful  without  sorting 
would  simply  stuff  the  crop  with  a  useless  liquid. 
What  does  the  bird  do?  It  closes  the  beak,  and  the 
water,  driven  back,  runs  out  through  the  fringed 
edges  as  if  through  a  grating.  The  tadpole  alone  re- 


THE  PALMIPEDES  87 

mains  behind  the  grating,  and  goes  down  into  the 
stomach." 

"You  can  see,  any  time,"  observed  Louis,  "the 
ducks  on  the  pond  dipping  up  water  by  the  mouthful. 
It  certainly  isn't  just  for  drinking  that  they  work 
their  beaks  so." 

"Certainly  not,"  assented  Uncle  Paul;  "they 
drain  the  water  of  the  pond  through  the  fringe  of  the 
beak  to  gather  worms  and  other  small  aquatic  prey. 

' '  The  spoon-shaped  beak  of  the  duck  indicates  the 
bird's  dabbling  habits;  now  let  us  see  what  the  feet 
have  to  say.  They  are  composed  of  three  toes  con- 
nected by  an  ample  and  supple  membrane.  Is  that, 
I  ask  you,  the  footgear  of  a  bird  destined  to  long 
walks  1  With  such  a  sole,  so  fine,  so  tender,  and  by 
its  extent  of  surface  exposing  itself  so  much  to  the 
hardness  of  the  stones,  is  the  duck  made  for  foot- 
racing? Note,  on  the  contrary,  the  foot  of  the  hen 
and  the  guinea-fowl,  both  untiring  walkers.  The 
toes  are  short,  knotty,  and  sheathed  with  strong 
leather,  without  any  connecting  membrane.  That  is 
the  true  footgear  of  the  pedestrian.  But  what  will 
become  of  the  duck  on  rough  ground,  with  its  wide 
sandals  that  a  mere  nothing  can  wound!  You  all 
know  its  pitiful  walk.  It  waddles  along,  as  ill  at  ease 
as  a  person  afflicted  with  corns  on  the  rough  pave- 
ment of  some  of  our  streets.  No,  the  duck  is  not 
made  for  walking. 

"But  in  water  those  expanded  feet  will  make  vig- 
orous swimming  oars.  If  the  bird  throws  them  out 
behind,  they  spread  wide  open  merely  with  the  re- 


88  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

sistance  of  the  water ;  and  their  fan-shape  gives  them 
purchase  enough  to  send  the  duck  forward.  When 
the  duck  draws  them  in  again  under  its  breast,  they 
are  closed  automatically  by  the  resistance  of  the  li- 
quid acting  in  a  contrary  direction;  the  membrane 
refolds  in  the  manner  of  a  closed  umbrella,  thus  do- 
ing away  with  all  shock  or  recoil.  The  twofold  es- 
sential of  a  perfect  oar  lies  in  its  presenting  to  the 
water  the  greatest  possible  surface  on  the  stroke,  and 
the  least  possible  surface  on  the  recovery,  so  as  to 
furnish  adequate  purchase  against  the  water  in  the 
first  movement  and  to  offer  only  very  feeble  resist- 
ance in  the  second.  If  the  oar  moved  alternately 
forward  and  backward  while  presenting  the  same 
extent  of  surface  to  the  water  and  driven  with  the 
same  vigor,  the  recoil  would  equal  the  advance  and 
there  would  be  no  progress.  Man,  with  all  his  skill, 
does  not  yet  know  how  to  ply  his  oar  so  that  it  shall 
offer  this  alternating  maximum  and  minimum  of  sur- 
face. Therefore,  in  propelling  a  boat,  he  is  obliged 
to  bring  the  oars  back  to  their  first  position  through 
the  air  instead  of  through  the  water,  which  latter 
would  be  much  more  direct.  The  duck  scorns  this 
clumsy  method:  with  its  foot,  which  opens  wide  of 
itself  in  the  backward  thrust  and  closes  again  of  its 
own  accord  in  the  return  movement,  it  moves  for- 
ward or  puts  about,  without  ever  lifting  the  oars 
from  the  water. 

"Thus  the  duck  is  an  expert  swimmer;  the  shape 
of  its  feet  tells  us  as  much,  and  a  glance  at  any  duck- 
pond  demonstrates  it.  Who  has  not  admired  the 


THE  PALMIPEDES 


89 


aquatic  evolutions  of  the  bird,  so  awkward  on  land 
with  its  tender  feet,  so  graceful  when  once  on  the 
water,  its  proper  element!  Sometimes  they  race 
with  one  another,  whitening  their  breasts  with  a 
band  of  foam;  sometimes,  in  order  to  explore  the 
depths  with  their  beaks,  they  plunge  half-way  in  and 
point  their  tails  heavenward ;  sometimes,  also,  yield- 
ing to  the  current,  they  let  themselves  drift  idly 
down-stream  or  hold  their  position  by  paddling  a 
few  strokes  when  necessary.  Water  is  their  chosen 
domain ;  there  they  take  their  recreation,  seek  their 
food,  and  enjoy  their  sleep. 

"The  membrane  connecting  the  duck's  toes  is 
called  a  web,  and  the  feet  converted  into  oars  by 
means  of  this  membrane 
are  spoken  of  as  webbed. 
Similar  feet  are  found  in 
all  good  swimming  birds 
such  as  the  swan,  teal, 
goose,  and  many  others. 
Hence  this  group  of 
birds,  especially  skilled 
in  swimming,  is  desig- 
nated by  the  term  of 
palmipede,  meaning  web- 
footed." 

"Then    the    duck    is 
a     palmipede  ! ' '     asked 

Emile.  Albatross 

"It  is  a  palmipede,  as  also  the  goose,  swan,  and 
teal.    All  four  are  equally  endowed  with  a  large 


90  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

spoon-bill  shaped  for  dabbling  in  the  water;  that  is 
to  say,  a  wide,  round  beak ;  but  there  are  palmipedes, 
notably  among  sea-birds,  that  live  on  prey,  on  fish, 
and  consequently  are  equipped  with  the  crooked 
mandible  appropriate  for  a  predatory  life.  Such,  to 
take  but  a  single  example,  is  the  albatross,  of  which 
I  here  show  you  the  picture.  By  its  ferociously 
hooked  beak  it  can  easily  be  recognized  as  a  sea  pi^ 
rate,  an  insatiable  devourer  of  fish." 

"I  certainly  don't  like  its  looks, "  declared  Emile. 
"But  tell  me  now  what  name  they  give  the  heron 
on  its  tall  stilts." 

"The  heron  belongs  to  the  group  of  stilt-birds  or 
wading-birds.  That  is  what  they  call  all  birds 
mounted  on  long  legs  for  traversing  the  marshes." 

"A  bird  on  stilts  is  a  stilt-bird;  it  would  be  hard 
to  improve  on  that.  It  is  just  the  kind  of  name  I 
like." 

"Instead  of  allowing  ourselves  to  be  turned  from 
our  theme  by  the  heron  and  its  stilts,  let  us  come 
back,  my  little  friend,  to  the  palmipedes,  the  swim- 
ming birds.  Clothing  made  expressly  for  the  pur- 
pose is  required  by  the  bird  that  passes  the  greater 
part  of  its  time  on  the  water.  It  is  indispensable 
that  this  clothing  should  keep  out  both  cold  and 
wet.  Well,  the  plumage  of  an  aquatic  bird,  espe- 
cially in  very  cold  countries,  is  a  marvel  of  deli- 
cate precautions.  The  outside  feathers  are  strong, 
placed  very  accurately  one  on  the  other  and  glossed 
with  an  oily  varnish  that  water  cannot  wet.  Have 
you  ever  noticed  ducks  as  they  come  out  of  the 


THE  PALMIPEDES  91 

water  I  They  may  have  prolonged  their  bath  for 
hours,  swimming,  diving,  playing;  but.  they  leave 
the  stream  without  getting  the  least  bit  wet.  If  a 
drop  of  water  has  got  between  their  feathers,  they 
have  only  to  shake  themselves  a  moment,  and  they 
are  perfectly  dry.  That,  you  must  agree,  is  a 
precious  privilege,  to  be  able  to  go  into  the  water 
and  not  get  wet." 

"A  privilege  that,  for  my  part,"  rejoined  Emile, 
"I  have  often  envied  without  being  able  to  explain — 
the  secret  of  a  duck's  keeping  dry  when  right  in  the 
water. ' ' 

"I  will  explain  the  secret  to  you.  Watch  the 
ducks  as  they  come  out  of  their  bath.  In  the  sun, 
some  lying  at  ease  on  their  stomachs,  others  stand- 
ing up,  they  proceed  to  make  their  toilet  with  minute 
care.  With  their  large  beak  they  smooth  their 
feathers,  one  by  one,  coat  them  over  with  an  oily 
fluid,  the  reservoir  of  which  is  situated  on  the  bird's 
rump.  There,  just  at  the  base  of  the  tail,  is  found, 
hidden  under  the  down,  a  kind  of  wart  of  grease, 
from  which  oil  oozes  constantly.  From  time  to  time 
the  beak  presses  the  wart,  draws  from  the  oily  res- 
ervoir, and  then  distributes  here  and  there,  method- 
ically, all  over  the  plumage,  the  oil  thus  obtained." 

4  *  That  greasy  wart  might  be  called  a  sort  of  po- 
matum pot,"  suggested  Emile. 

"It  is  a  pomatum  pot,  if  that  comparison  pleases 
you.  Thus  greased,  thus  anointed  with  pomatum, 
feather  by  feather,  the  duck  furnishes  no  foothold 
for  moisture,  because,  as  you  all  know,  water  and 


92  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

oil  do  not  mix,  and  from  an  oiled  surface  drops  of 
water  run  off  without  wetting  it.  Such  is  the  secret 
of  the  duck's  keeping  itself  dry  when  immersed  in 
water. ' ' 

"That  is  one  of  the  most  curious  things  I  ever 
heard  of,"  declared  Jules,  "and  one  that  I  should  n't 
have  known  anything  about  for  a  long  time  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  Uncle  Paul.  Should  I  ever  have 
guessed  that  the  duck  presses  a  certain  wart  on  its 
rump  to  get  the  grease  for  oiling  its  feathers?" 

"The  duck's  secret  is  known  to  all  birds  without 
exception ;  all  have  this  oil-sac  on  the  rump,  and  ob- 
tain from  it  the  oil  for  giving  luster  to  their  plumage 
and  making  it  impervious  to  wet ;  but  aquatic  birds 
are  more  abundantly  provided  in  this  respect.  And 
it  is  only  right  that  those  most  exposed  to  damp- 
ness should  have  the  largest  reservoir  of  this  oily 
coating. ' ' 

"In  all  birds  the  fattest  part  is  always  the  rump," 
said  Louis.  "Grease  gathers  there  by  preference, 
no  doubt,  to  maintain  the  store  of  oil  in  the  oil-sac?" 

"Evidently.  It  is  in  this  storehouse  that  the  oil 
attains  its  perfect  state  and  becomes  the  finished 
product  that  oozes  from  the  sac.  As  to  the  making 
of  it  in  the  first  place,  nearly  all  parts  of  the  body 
take  part;  and  as  the  swimming  bird  uses  a  great 
deal  of  this  pomatum,  the  result  is  that  the  palmi- 
pede tends  to  fatness  and,  as  it  were,  sweats  grease : 
witness  the  plump  duck  and  goose,  which  carry  un- 
der the  breast  a  heavy,  fat  swelling.  As  a  general 
rule,  the  web-footed  fowl  of  our  poultry-yards  is 


THE  PALMIPEDES  93 

analogous  to  the  pig :  it  is  a  fat-factory.  We  divert 
to  our  own  use  the  excess  of  fat  accumulated  pri- 
marily for  the  supply  of  the  oil-sac  on  the  rump  and 
the  maintenance  of  the  luster  that  distinguishes  the 
plumage. 

"The  palmipede,  you  see,  is  admirably  protected 
against  wet.  Neither  rain  nor  the  finest  drizzle  can 
penetrate  the  first  covering  of  feathers,  always  kept, 
as  it  is,  well  coated  with  the  varnish  laid  on  by  the 
point  of  the  beak.  The  bird  can  plunge  into  the 
deepest  water,  swim  on  its  surface,  or  sleep  there 
cradled  by  the  waves,  and  the  wet  will  not  reach  it. 
Neither  will  cold  affect  it,  for  under  this  outer  cover- 
ing is  found  a  second,  designed  for  resisting  in- 
clement weather  and  made  of  what  is  most  effica- 
cious for  preserving  the  heat  of  the  body.  This  un- 
der-clothing of  aquatic  birds  is  a  down  so  delicate 
and  soft  that,  unable  to  compare  it  with  anything 
else,  we  have  given  it  a  special  name,  that  of  eider- 
down. In  its  proper  place  I  will  come  back  to  this 
down.  For  the  present  let  us  confine  ourselves  to  a 
general  survey  of  the  palmipedes,  and  of  the  duck 
in  particular. '  * 


CHAPTEE  XII 

THE   DUCK 

"  T  WILL  begin  with  the  wild  duck,  parent  stock  of 
JL  our  domestic  duck.  It  is  a  splendid  bird,  at  least 
the  male,  for  the  costume  of  the  female  is  less  rich, 
as  may  be  remarked  in  all  the  other  species.  The 
head  and  upper  part  of  the  neck  are  emerald  green, 
with  glints  as  of  polished  metal,  while  beneath  is  a 

white  collar,  its  dull 
coloring  contrasting 
with  the  brilliance  of 
the  adjacent  tints.  A 
brownish  purple  ex- 
tends from  the  base  of 
the  neck  down  over  the 
breast,  where  it  gradu- 
wild  Duck  ally  fades  into  gray  on 

the  sides  and  stomach.  Changeable  green,  mixed 
with  black,  colors  the  region  of  the  tail,  whence  rise 
four  small  feathers  curling  in  the  shape  of  a  crook. 
In  the  middle  of  each  wing  a  spot  of  magnificent 
azure  is  encircled,  first,  with  velvety  blue,  then  with 
white.  The  back,  sides,  and  stomach  are  speckled 
with  black  spots  on  a  gray  ground.  Finally,  the  beak 
is  yellowish  green,  and  the  feet  are  orange.  Such  is 
the  duck  in  its  wild  state,  and  such  it  often  is  under 

94 


THE  DUCK  95 

domestication,  notwithstanding  the  numerous  varia- 
tions of  plumage  that  captivity  has  caused  it  to 
undergo. ' ' 

"The  head  superbly  clothed  in  green,"  observed 
Emile,  "the  little  curly  tail-feathers,  and  the  spot  of 
blue  in  the  middle  of  the  wing — I  have  noticed  all 
these  lots  of  times  in  tame  ducks. ' ' 

1  '  The  wild  duck  is  strong  of  wing  and  a  passionate 
lover  of  travel.  Consequently  it  is  found  nearly 
everywhere ;  but  it  does  not  stay  long  anywhere,  un- 
less it  be  in  the  most  northerly  regions,  Lapland, 
Spitzbergen,  and  Siberia,  where  it  delights  in  the 
solitude  so  favorable  for  nesting  undisturbed  and 
passing  the  summer.  Twice  a  year  it  visits  us :  in 
the  spring  on  its  way  to  the  North,  and  in  the  autumn 
on  its  return  from  the  Pole,  when  it  goes  as  far  as 
Africa  to  take  up  its  winter  quarters  in  warmer  coun- 
tries. On  a  gray  November  day  when  it  threatens 
snow  you  can  see,  passing  from  north  to  south,  at 
a  great  height,  migrating  birds  arranged  one  behind 
another  in  two  files  which  meet  in  a  point,  like  the 
two  arms  of  a  V.  It  is  a  flock  of  ducks  emigrating. 
They  are  fleeing  the  approach  of  cold  weather  and 
seeking  a  milder  climate,  perhaps  beyond  the  sea, 
where  they  may  find  assured  nourishment  in  waters 
that  do  not  freeze.  The  better  to  cleave  the  air 
and  husband  their  strength  on  such  a  long  journey, 
the  flying  squadron  arranges  itself  in  the  form  of  a 
wedge,  the  point  of  which  opens  the  way  through 
the  resisting  air.  The  post  at  the  tip  is  the  hard- 
est, since  the  leader  of  the  file,  being  the  first, 


96  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

has  to  overcome  the  resistance  of  the  atmosphere. 
Each  one  takes  it  in  turn  for  a  certain  time,  and  when 
it  is  tired  falls  back  to  the  rear  to  rest  while  an- 
other takes  its  place." 

"To  come  from  countries  near  the  Pole  to  this 
one,  and  still  more  to  Africa,"  said  Jules,  "is  a  very 
long  journey,  at  least  a  thousand  miles.  I  can 
understand  how,  in  order  to  accomplish  it,  the  ducks 
must  save  their  strength  by  arranging  themselves 
in  the  form  of  a  wedge,  point  foremost.  But  tell  me, 
Uncle,  what  makes  these  birds  prefer  the  countries 
of  the  extreme  north,  where  they  go  to  pass  the 
summer  and  build  their  nests  I  Would  n  't  they  be 
better  off  with  us  than  in  those  wild  countries,  so 
cold  and  covered  with  snow  and  ice  a  great  part 
of  the  year?" 

"Such  is  not  the  opinion  of  the  duck,  which  pre- 
fers the  gloomy  solitudes  of  the  most  desolate 
islands  to  countries  disturbed  by  the  presence  of 
man.  In  those  peaceful  spots  it  can  raise  its  family 
in  complete  security;  and,  besides,  provisions  abound 
in  the  neighboring  waters,  which  are  thawed  out 
for  several  weeks  by  the  summer  sun.  Neither  is  it 
the  opinion  of  the  teal,  goose,  plover,  lapwing,  and 
many  others,  which  all,  as  soon  as  spring  comes, 
leave  us  and  return  to  the  North,  journeying  by  long 
stages.  Then  it  is  that,  from  his  ambush  in  a  hut 
of  foliage  in  the  middle  of  a  swampy  field  or  in  the 
dried  bed  of  a  wide  torrent,  the  hunter  imitates  with 
a  reed  whistle  the  plaintive  note  of  the  plover,  to 
call  the  migrating  bird  to  his  nets.  The  flock  ar- 


THE  DUCK  97 

rives,  circles  about  a  moment  undecided,  suspects 
danger,  and  flies  off  again  into  the  distant  blue, 
where  it  is  soon  lost  to  sight.  Whither  is  it  going! 
It  is  going  where  its  instinct  calls  it,  to  the  solitudes 
of  the  North.  At  the  first  thawing  of  the  ice,  when 
the  ground,  still  wet  from  the  melting  snows,  begins 
to  be  clothed  with  flowers,  in  fact  in  May  or  June, 
it  will  reach  perhaps  the  Faroe  Islands,  perhaps  the 
Orkneys  or  Iceland,  or  maybe  Lapland.  It  is  never 
without  a  lively  interest  that  I  watch  the  flight  of 
one  of  these  migrating  flocks,  better  guided  on  its 
audacious  journey  than  the  navigator  with  the  aid 
of  the  compass.  I  picture  to  myself  the  joys  of 
arrival,  the  common  delight  when  the  long  flight 
finally  ends  on  the  home  island,  the  friendly  land 
where,  in  a  mossy  hollow,  the  red-marbled  eggs  will 
presently  be  laid. 

"For  a  great  many  birds,  and  among  them  the 
duck,  the  archipelagoes  of  the  North  are  a  promised 
land,  an  earthly  paradise.  The  most  varied  species 
meet  here  from  all  parts  of  the  world.  What  a  lively 
scene,  therefore,  what  a  festival,  when  nesting  time 
comes!  Nowhere  else  is  there  such  a  reunion  of 
birds.  Let  me  tell  you  the  strange  scene  that  takes 
place  then,  according  to  travelers  who  have  wit- 
nessed it. 

"We  are  at  Spitzbergen,  facing  some  towering 
cliffs  that  overlook  the  sea  and  extend  back  in  the 
form  of  receding  shelves,  one  above  another,  like 
the  rows  of  seats  in  a  theater.  These  shelves  are  all 
covered  with  myriads  of  female  birds  sitting  on  their 


98  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

eggs,  with  heads  turned  seaward,  as  numerous  and 
as  crowded  as  the  spectators  in  a  theater  at  a  first- 
night  performance.  They  cackle  to  each  other  from 
neighbor  to  neighbor  and  seem  to  be  engaged  in  an 
animated  conversation,  as  a  diversion  from  the 
tedium  of  prolonged  incubation.  All  around  the 
cliff,  on  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  swimmers  of  all 
kinds  dive  and  dabble,  chasing,  pecking,  and  beating 
one  another.  Others  fill  the  air  with  their  hoarse  or 
shrill  cries,  going  unceasingly  from  sea  to  nests  and 
from  nests  to  sea,  calling  to  their  mates,  wheeling 
around  above  them,  caressing  their  little  ones,  play- 
ing with  their  brothers,  and  showing  in  a  noisy  and 
innocent  way  their  fears  and  wants,  their  joy  and 
happiness.  To  describe  the  agitation,  confusion, 
noise,  cries,  croakings,  and  whistlings  of  these  count- 
less birds  of  all  shapes  and  colors  and  styles,  is  quite 
impossible.  The  hunter,  dizzy  and  stunned,  knows 
not  where  to  fire  in  this  living  whirlpool;  he  is  in- 
capable of  distinguishing  and  still  more  of  following 
the  bird  he  wishes  to  aim  at.  Wearied  by  vain  ef- 
fort, he  directs  his  fire  at  the  very  midst  of  the 
cloud.  The  shot  is  sped.  Immediately  confusion  is 
at  its  height ;  clouds  of  birds,  perched  on  the  rocks 
or  swimming  on  the  water,  take  flight  in  their  turn 
and  mingle  with  the  others ;  a  deafening  discordant 
clamor  rises  to  the  skies.  Far  from  dissipating,  the 
cloud  grows  thicker  and  whirls  about  still  more. 
Cormorants,  at  first  motionless  on  the  rocks  betwixt 
wind  and  water,  become  noisily  excited;  sea-gulls 
fly  in  circles  about  the  hunter's  head  and  strike 


THE  DUCK  99 

him  in  the  face  with  their  wings.  All  these  differ- 
ent species,  peacefully  assembled  on  an  isolated 
rock  in  the  midst  of  the  glacial  ocean  waves,  seem 
to  reproach  man  for  coming  to  the  very  end  of  the 
world  to  trouble  the  joys  of  the  brooding  mother. 
The  females,  still  motionless  on  their  eggs  in  the 
midst  of  this  disorder,  content  themselves  with  join- 
ing their  protests  to  those  of  the  indignant  males. " 

"I  have  never  heard  anything  like  that  before, 
Uncle, ' '  said  Jules.  l '  Under  the  roof -tiles  we  some- 
times find  a  dozen  nests  of  sparrows  living  as  neigh- 
bors ;  but  how  far  these  little  gatherings  are  from  the 
Spitzbergen  throngs !  Those  rocks  on  the  borders  of 
the  sea  are  populous  towns,  with  nests  for  houses 
and  birds  for  inhabitants.  * ' 

"Are  there  ducks  on  those  rocks,  too?"  asked 
Louis. 

"No,  my  friend, "  replied  Uncle  Paul;  "there  are 
only  sea-birds.  Wild  ducks  and  geese  flock  by 
themselves  and  make  their  nests  inland,  far  from 
the  waters  of  the  sea,  which  do  not  suit  them.  They 
prefer  the  borders  of  a  lake  or  swamp.  Their  nests 
are  built  on  the  ground  among  tufts  of  grass. 
Sometimes  they  are  so  numerous  o»e  could  not  take 
a  step  without  treading  on  eggs. ' ' 

"Oh,  what  a  fine  harvest  of  eggs  I  should  have  if 
I  were  there!" 

"You  forget,  my  child,  that  Uncle  Paul  expressly 
forbids  you  to  touch  birds'  nests.  However,  as  once 
is  not  a  habit,  and  as,  moreover,  the  temptation 
would  be  irresistible,  I  would  shut  my  eyes  and  would 


100  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

leave  you  to  your  own  devices  if  we  were  on  those 
famous  bird-rocks  of  Spitzbergen,  Greenland,  or 
Lapland.  Basket,  hat,  handkerchief,  all  would  soon 
be  full ;  you  would  simply  be  perplexed  what  to  take 
and  what  to  leave.  All  shapes  are  there  together. 
There  are  some  eggs  as  round  as  balls,  some  oval 
and  like  those  of  our  own  poultry,  some  equally 
pointed  at  both  ends,  and  some  very  much  enlarged 
at  one  end  and  small  at  the  other,  almost  like  pears. 
All  these  sea-birds'  eggs  are  large,  because  the 
young,  on  leaving  the  shell,  must  be  strong  enough 
to  follow  their  parents  on  the  water  and  begin  to 
earn  their  own  living.  And  then,  what  variety  of 
color  and  design!  There  are  white  eggs,  yellowish 
eggs,  and  red  eggs.  Some  are  dark  green,  imitating 
the  color  of  the  waves  that  roar  at  the  base  of  the 
rock;  others  seem  to  borrow  their  pale  blue  from 
the  azure  itself.  These  are  diversified  with  areas  of 
different  colors,  like  the  maps  in  your  geography; 
those  are  painted  with  large  spots  and  remind  one 
of  the  leopard's  skin." 

"Oh,  if  I  were  only  there!"  sighed  Emile. 

"As  we  are  not  there,  let  us  leave  the  beautiful 
rock-eggs  to  the  birds  and  return  to  the  duck. 

"It  is  in  order  to  get  back  to  these  northern 
countries,  their  paradise,  that  wild  ducks  pass  over 
us  at  the  end  of  winter.  The  journey  is  chiefly  made 
at  night,  the  day  being  reserved  for  rest  among  the 
rushes.  While  the  flock  sleeps,  each  bird's  head 
under  its  wing,  some  members  station  themselves 
at  favorable  points  and,  vigilant  scouts,  watch  over 


THE  DUCK  101 

the  common  welfare.  At  the  first  appearance  of 
danger  the  cry  of  alarm  is  sounded,  a  sort  of  hoarse 
clarion  call.  Immediately  the  flock  takes  wing  or 
dives  under  the  water.  In  descending  from  the 
upper  air  and  alighting  on  a  suitable  spot,  the  cau- 
tious bird  is  equally  prudent.  The  flock  comes  and 
goes  several  times,  and  circles  about  repeatedly  to 
give  the  place  a  thorough  examination.  If  nothing 
disquieting  appears,  it  descends  in  an  oblique  flight, 
grazes  the  surface  of  the  water  with  the  tips  of  its 
wings,  and  then  swims  to  the  middle  of  the  pond, 
far  from  the  shore  where  the  danger  would  be  great- 
est. Nothing,  then,  is  more  difficult  than  to  catch  a 
flock  of  wild  ducks  off  their  guard.  The  hunter  has 
recourse  to  a  ruse  and  turns  to  his  own  account  the 
friendly  relations  that  always  exist  between  the  tame 
duck  and  its  brother,  the  wild  duck.  Hidden  on  the 
edge  of  the  pond  in  a  reed  hut,  he  releases  two  or 
three  tame  ducks,  whose  cries  call  the  strangers  and 
bring  them  within  gunshot. 

"  Although  the  laying  of  eggs  generally  takes 
place  in  the  northern  regions,  there  are  always  a 
few  pairs  of  ducks  that  linger  and  make  their  nests 
with  us,  either  from  being  tired  with  too  long  a 
journey  or  because  they  have  strayed  away  from 
the  migrating  flocks.  For  her  nesting  place,  the 
mother  chooses  some  cluster  of  reeds  in  the  middle 
of  the  swamp.  She  beats  down  and  flattens  the  cen- 
tral rushes;  then,  using  her  beak  to  intertwine  the 
outer  ones,  she  succeeds  in  weaving  a  kind  of  coarse 
basket,  which  she  lines  with  warm  down,  plucked 


102  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

from  her  breast  and  stomach.  More  rarely  she 
establishes  herself  in  some  large  tree  where  she 
makes  use  of  a  nest  abandoned  by  the  magpie.  The 
rude  structure  of  dry  sticks  is  restored,  and 
especially  is  it  well  lined  with  fine  feathers  plucked 
from  her  own  body.  The  eggs  are  laid  in  March  and 
number  about  fifteen.  Incubation  takes  thirty-one 
days.  Whenever  the  need  of  food  makes  her  leave 
the  nest  for  a  few  minutes,  the  mother  takes  care 
to  cover  the  eggs  with  a  thick  layer  of  down,  so  that 
they  shall  not  become  cold.  When  she  comes  back 
it  is  never  in  a  straight  line  or  uninterrupted  flight. 
She  alights  at  some  distance  from  the  nest,  then  cau- 
tiously approaches  by  tortuous  windings,  varied 
every  time  and  calculated  to  baffle  whoever  may  be 
watching  her. 

"The  young  ones  are  born  clothed  with  a  delicate 
fur  of  yellow  down,  which  they  keep  for  some  time. 
As  soon  as  hatched,  the  brood  is  led  to  the  water 
and  abandons  the  nest,  never  to  return  to  it.  If 
the  pond  is  too  far  away  for  such  young  legs,  or  if 
the  nest  is  at  the  top  of  some  tall  oak,  the  father 
and  mother  take  the  little  ones  tenderly  by  the  nape 
of  the  neck  and  carry  them  one  by  one  to  the  shore. 
The  removal  accomplished,  the  mother  goes  into  the 
water,  the  boldest  one  of  her  brood  follows  her,  and 
the  others  imitate  its  example.  Their  aquatic  educa- 
tion immediately  begins.  In  order  to  swim  you  must 
do  so  and  so,  are  the  parents'  instructions;  and  to 
dive  and  tack  about  you  must  do  like  this.  The  tad- 
pole, that  dainty  morsel,  is  caught  in  this  manner, 


THE  DUCK  103 

but  if  you  don't  catch  it  with  the  first  snap  of  the 
beak,  you  get  it  by  diving.  The  little  shell-fish 
hides  under  the  leaves,  and  that  's  where  you  must 
hunt  if  you  want  to  find  it.  The  larva  frequents 
warm  mud;  seek,  my  children,  near  the  shore  and 
you  will  find  it.  The  lively  frog  calls  for  nimble 
tactics :  a  quick  snap  of  the  beak  will  fetch  him.  All 
that  is  so  soon  and  so  well  understood  by  the  duck- 
lings, that  the  mother  does  not  have  to  look  after 
their  food ;  her  part  is  simply  to  gather  them  under 
her  wing  to  keep  them  warm  when  the  family  retires 
to  the  shore  to  rest  or  to  pass  the  night. 

4  *  Apart  from  the  love  of  traveling,  which  many 
centuries  of  domestication  have  caused  to  be  forgot- 
ten, the  habits  of  the  tame  duck  do  not  differ  from 
those  of  the  wild.  The  female  duck  begins  to  lay 'in 
February  or  March,  and  lays  from  forty  to  fifty  eggs 
a  year,  if  one  is  careful  to  remove  them  as  they  are 
laid.  These  eggs  are  slightly  larger  than  the  hen's, 
smoother,  rounder,  sometimes  dull  white,  sometimes 
a  little  greenish.  The  duck  is  impelled  by  instinct 
to  lay  them  among  the  neighboring  reeds  and  rushes, 
and  it  is  therefore  necessary  to  watch  her  if  one 
does  not  wish  to  run  the  risk  of  losing  the  eggs. 

"Domestication  does  not  by  any  means  always  im- 
prove the  qualities  of  animals  subjected  to  our  care. 
If  there  is  gain  in  corpulence,  in  quantity  of  ali- 
mentary matter,  there  is  frequently  loss  on  the  side 
of  what  might  be  called  the  moral  qualities.  So  it  is 
that  the  tame  duck  is  not  so  good  a  brooder  nor  so  de- 
voted a  mother  as  the  wild  one.  The  hen,  on  the 


104  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

contrary,  has  forgotten  none  of  her  maternal  duties ; 
she  even  carries  them  to  excess  in  the  hen-house, 
until  she  lets  herself  die  of  starvation  on  her  nest, 
a  thing  she  would  not  do  in  her  wild  state.  Hence, 
it  is  to  the  hen,  a  better  mother  than  the  duck,  that 
the  latter 's  eggs  are  usually  entrusted. 

"The  period  of  incubation  is  thirty-one  days,  the 
same  as  with  the  wild  duck.  If  the  brood  is  hatched 
at  a  time  of  year  when  the  weather  is  still  cold,  it 
would  be  dangerous  for  the  ducklings  to  go  im- 
mediately into  the  water,  whither  their  instinct  calls 
them,  and  whither  the  mother  duck  that  had  brooded 
them  would  not  fail  to  lead  them.  Hence  the  little 
ones  and  their  mother,  hen  or  duck,  are  put  under 
a  coop  in  a  place  apart,  where  there  is  no  danger  of 
trampling  or  other  rough  treatment  from  the  rest 
of  the  poultry.  During  this  sequestration  the  food 
consists  of  a  mixture  of  barley  flour,  boiled  potatoes, 
bran,  and  chopped  nettles,  all  made  into  a  mush 
with  greasy  dish-water.  Ducklings  have  a  strong 
stomach  and  active  digestion;  they  need  from  six 
to  eight  meals  a  day,  so  quickly  does  their  food  pass. 
Let  us  not  forget  to  put  a  large  plate  of  water  under 
the  coop.  It  will  serve  them  as  a  swimming  basin 
in  which  their  wide  beaks  will  practise  dabbling  and 
their  webbed  feet  will  learn  their  destined  use. 
Daily  sport  on  this  little  sheet  of  water  will  help 
them  to  have  patience  until  the  great  day  when 
larger  evolutions  on  the  broad  pond  will  be  allowed. 

"A  week,  two  weeks,  pass  in  this  way.  At  last 
the  longed-for  moment  arrives.  The  mother  duck 


THE  DUCK  105 

leads  her  family  to  the  neighboring  pond,  or  the 
ducklings  find  their  way  thither  unaided  if  they  have 
a  hen  for  a  nurse.  I  have  told  you  of  the  fright 
of  that  adoptive  mother  when  she  sees  her  little  ones 
throw  themselves  joyously  into  the  water,  deaf  to 
her  supplications.  If  the  pond  is  not  too  deep,  the 
hen  wades  in  till  the  water  reaches  half-way  up  her 
legs,  and  runs  along  the  edge,  calling  her  dear  brood. 
In  vain  her  courageous  devotion,  to  no  purpose  her 
anxiety  and  grief :  the  ducklings  gain  the  deep  water 
whither  she  cannot  follow  them,  and,  heedless  of 
the  mother  admonishing  them  from  the  shore,  they 
wag  their  little  pointed  tails  with  joy. 

"Like  the  pig,  the  duck  will  eat  anything  and 
everything.  In  still  waters,  in  which  it  delights, 
it  snaps  up  tadpoles  and  little  frogs,  worms  of  all 
kinds  and  soft  shell-fish,  water  insects  and  little 
minnows.  In  the  field  it  eats  the  tender  herbage 
and  makes  prey  of  the  slimy  slug  and  even  the  snail, 
no  whit  abashed  by  the  latter 's  shell.  In  the 
poultry-yard  offer  it  the  kitchen  leavings,  parings  of 
all  kinds,  garden  refuse,  dish-water,  and  garbage, 
and  the  glutton  will  feast  royally. 

"Thus  because  of  its  voracity  the  duck  is  easy 
to  fatten;  provided  it  has  abundant  food  and  a 
chance  to  play  in  the  water,  you  may  be  sure  it  will 
take  on  fat  without  any  other  care.  Nevertheless, 
in  order  to  obtain  certain  results  it  is  necessary  to 
go  beyond  the  bird's  natural  gluttony  and  have  re- 
course to  forcible  feeding.  For  a  couple  of  weeks 
ducks  are  shut  up  in  a  dark  place.  Morning  and 


106  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

evening,  a  servant  takes  them  on  her  knees,  crosses 
their  wings,  and  opens  their  beak  with  one  hand 
while  with  the  other  she  stuffs  their  crop  with  boiled 
maize.  Thus  gorged  to  excess  with  food,  the  miser- 
able ducks  pass  their  captivity  resting  on  their 
stomachs,  always  panting,  almost  breathless,  half 
stifled.  Some  die  of  surfeit.  Finally  the  rump,  dis- 
tended with  fat,  spreads  the  tail-feathers  out  fan- 
wise  so  that  they  cannot  be  closed  again.  This  is 
a  sign  that  the  fattening  process  has  reached  its 
extreme  limit.  Haste  is  then  made  to  behead  the 
poor  creature,  which  otherwise  would  soon  die  of 
suffocation. ' 9 

"And  why,  if  you  please,"  asked  Jules,  " these 
horrible  tortures  if  the  duck  fattens  so  easily  by 
itself!" 

' '  Alas,  my  friend,  the  satisfaction  of  the  stomach 
makes  us  cruelly  ingenious.  In  the  state  of  con- 
tinual suffocation  that  overtakes  the  bird  when  it  is 
gorged  with  boiled  maize,  a  mortal  disease  sets  in, 
the  disease  of  the  glutton,  among  men  as  among 
ducks.  The  liver  becomes  tremendously  enlarged 
and  changes  to  a  soft,  shapeless  mass,  oozing  grease. 
Well,  this  liver,  decomposed  by  disease,  furnishes 
to  the  palate  of  connoisseurs  an  incomparable  del- 
icacy. I  take  their  word  for  it,  not  being  able  to 
speak  from  experience,  as  I  have  none ;  for,  between 
you  and  me,  my  friend,  I  own  that  such  delicacies 
would  be  repugnant  to  your  Uncle  Paul.  In  my 
humble  opinion,  it  is  paying  too  much  for  a  greasy 
mouthful  to  subject  the  duck  to  those  frightful  tor- 


THE  DUCK  107 

tures.  I  will  add  that  the  pasties  of  Amiens  and  the 
celebrated  ragouts  of  Nerac  and  Toulouse  are  made 
of  these  livers. 

"To  bring  this  subject  to  a  close,  a  few  words  on 
a  second  kind  of  duck,  less  common  in  our  poultry- 
yards  than  the  first.  It  is  the  Barbary  duck,  called 
also  the  musk  duck  on  account  of  its  odor  of  musk, 
and  likewise  known  as  the  silent  duck,  because  it 
utters  no  cry.  It  is  much  larger  than  the  common 
duck,  its  plumage  is  darker,  of  a  variegated  black 
and  green,  and  the  head  of  the  male  is  adorned  with 
scales  and  with  fleshy  growths  of  a  bright  red  color. ' 9 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   WILD   GOOSE 

WHEN  we  say  of  some  one,  'He  is  as  silly  as  a 
goose,'  we  think  we  have  applied  the  strong- 
est term  indicative  of  foolishness  that  our  language 
furnishes.    Is  the  goose  then  so  silly?     That  is  what 
I  am  about  to  discuss  with  you,  my  friends. 

"I  agree  at  the  outset  that  its  appearance  is  not 

such  as  to  give  a  high 
idea  of  its  intellectual 
faculties.  Its  head  is 
too  small  for  its  body, 
its  diminutive  and  ex- 
pressionless eyes,  its 
enormous  beak  hiding 
its  whole  face,  its  wad- 
dling walk  made  still 

more  awkward  by  the  fatty  protuberance  that  hangs 
down  under  its  stomach  and  strikes  its  feet,  its 
neck  sometimes  awkwardly  outstretched,  sometimes 
sharply  bent  as  if  broken,  its  cry  surpassing  in 
hoarseness  the  note  of  the  hoarsest  clarion,  its  angry 
or  frightened  whistle  resembling  the  hiss  of  the 
snake  when  surprised — all  that,  I  hasten  to  acknowl- 
edge, does  not  prepossess  one  in  favor  of  the  bird. 
But  how  often,  under  a  rude  exterior,  is  hidden  a  re- 
fined nature !  Let  us  not  judge  the  goose  by  its  ap- 

108 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  109 

pearance,  but  let  us  go  deeper  before  forming  a  fixed 
opinion. ' ' 

"I  see  what  you  are  up  to,  Uncle, "  interrupted 
Jules;  "you  are  taking  up  your  favorite  refrain,  the 
praise  of  the  slandered.  A  while  ago  you  extolled 
the  two  ugliest  of  creatures,  the  bat  and  the  toad; 
now  you  are  going  to  undertake  the  defense  of  the 
goose  and  clear  it  of  the  slander  it  suffers  in  being 
called  silly. " 

"Why  should  I  deny  it,  my  child?  Yes,  my 
favorite  occupation  is  pleading  the  cause  of  the 
weak,  the  miserable,  the  traduced,  the  outlawed. 
The  strong  and  the  powerful  are  not  wanting  in  ad- 
mirers, so  I  can  pass  them  over  very  quickly;  but 
I  should  reproach  myself  all  my  life  were  I  to  for- 
get the  forsaken  and  not  bring  to  light  their  good 
qualities,  unrecognized  and,  indeed,  too  often  shame- 
fully misrepresented  as  they  are.  As  to  its  treat- 
ment, the  goose  needs  no  pleading  of  mine :  it  is  too 
valuable  to  us  not  to  be  taken  care  of  as  it  deserves. 
The  only  reproach  I  have  to  bring  has  to  do  with 
the  reputation  for  stupidity  it  has  been  made  to  bear. 
I  am  well  aware  that  the  goose,  as  a  sensible  creature, 
is  superbly  indifferent  to  this  calumny,  and  I  offer 
it  my  congratulations;  but,  after  all,  this  false  re- 
pute is  an  instance  of  error,  and  wherever  I  find 
error  I  give  it  battle. 

"First,  I  will  show  you  the  goose  as  an  adept  in 
geography.  In  spite  of  our  books,  maps,  and  atlases, 
how  the  reputedly  silly  bird  would  surpass  all  of 
us  and  many  others !  Know  that  in  its  wild  state 


110  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  goose  is  an  impassioned  traveler,  even  more  so 
than  its  companion,  the  duck.  Influenced  by  con- 
siderations of  convenience,  the  latter  often  nests  in 
our  latitudes;  the  goose  is  more  given  to  mistrust 
and  passes  us  by.  For  the  laying  of  its  eggs  it  must 
seek  regions  as  near  the  Pole  as  possible,  regions 
of  never-melting  ice.  The  desolate  wastes  of 
Greenland  and  Spitzbergen,  and,  still  farther  north, 
the  islands  lost  in  the  fogs  of  the  polar  ocean,  are 
the  regions  whither  they  feel  bound  to  return  every 
summer.  The  point  of  departure,  where  the  bird 
has  passed  the  winter  in  the  midst  of  plenty  when 
its  native  country  was  plunged  in  continual  night 
and  buried  under  fathomless  depths  of  snow  and  ice 
— the  point  of  departure  is  far  south,  in  central 
Africa  perhaps,  so  that  the  distance  to  be  covered 
measures  almost  a  quarter-circumference  of  the 
earth.  Now,  my  friends,  let  us  put  ourselves  in  the 
place  of  the  wild  goose  just  about  to  take  its  flight 
for  the  long  expedition,  and  see  which  of  the  two 
parties  will  be  the  more  perplexed,  the  more  stupid. 
I  leave  out  of  the  account  means  of  transportation : 
however  good  a  mount  we  might  have,  we  should 
cut  a  pitiable  figure  beside  the  goose,  which  with 
powerful  wing  soars  above  the  clouds  and  conquers 
space.  I  pass  by  the  means  of  transportation  and 
ask  only  what  direction  is  to  be  taken.  I  appeal  to 
your  knowledge  of  geography." 

"Since  it  is  only  necessary  to  go  north,"  answered 
Jules,  "I  should  first  make  sure  of  the  points  of  the 
compass.  I  should  turn  toward  the  sun,  and  if  it  is 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  111 

rising,  the  north  would  be  on  the  left;  if  setting, 
the  north  would  be  on  the  right.  This  direction 
fixed,  I  should  set  out  accordingly. " 

"In  the  supposed  case  that  method  is  inapplicable. 
As  an  experienced  traveler  husbanding  its  strength 
and  hence  making  the  most  of  the  cooler  hours,  the 
goose  travels  only  at  night. " 

"Then  I  would  turn  toward  the  constellation  of 
the  Bear,  toward  the  polar  star.  The  north  is  in 
that  direction." 

"Very  good:  you  would  find  the  north  in  that 
way  if  the  night  were  clear;  but  if  the  night  were 
dark  and  you  could  not  see  the  stars,  what  would 
you  doT' 

"I  should  use  a  compass,  the  needle  of  which 
always  points  nearly  northward. " 

' '  But  if  you  did  not  have  that  precious  instrument, 
the  traveler's  guide  in  the  midst  of  the  waste  soli- 
tudes of  land  and  sea — if  you  had  no  compass,  how 
would  you  find  your  way,  my  friend?" 

"In  that  case,  Uncle,  I  should  be  very  much  per- 
plexed. Perplexed  is  not  the  word ;  on  the  contrary, 
I  should  see  very  clearly  that  there  was  no  possibility 
of  my  finding  my  way.  I  should  not  budge  from 
the  spot,  for  I  might  as  well  try  to  guide  myself 
blindfolded." 

"Here,  my  dear  child,  the  bird  reputed  to  be  so 
stupid,  so  foolish,  towers  above  us  all  by  a  thousand 
cubits.  Without  consulting  the  rising  or  setting 
sun,  paying  no  heed  to  the  constellations,  for  which 
it  has  no  use,  availing  itself  of  no  compass  but  its 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

instinct,  which  says,  'This  is  the  way' — in  darkness 
as  well  as  in  light,  the  goose  plunges  into  space  and 
flies  northward. 

"But  that  is  only  the  beginning  of  the  problem. 
A  simple  northern  direction  leads,  according  to  the 
point  of  departure,  to  very  different  regions,  some- 
times to  Siberia,  sometimes  to  Spitzbergen  and  Lap- 
land, sometimes  to  the  northern  islands  of  Iceland, 
Greenland,  and  what  others  shall  I  say?  But  no 
such  vague  destination  will  do  for  the  goose.  The 
bird  must  return  to  its  native  country,  of  which  it 
retains  an  ineffaceable  remembrance,  just  as  a  man, 
through  all  the  shifts  and  changes  of  his  stirring  life, 
preserves  the  cherished  memory  of  his  own  village. 
The  goose,  then,  must  again  find  the  sea  whose  mur- 
mur it  listened  to  in  youth.  In  that  sea  is  a  certain 
islet,  on  that  islet  a  certain  moor,  and  on  that  moor 
a  certain  hidden  retreat  covered  with  rushes  and 
sheltered  from  the  wind  by  a  rock.  That  is  its  birth- 
place ;  it  must  find  its  way. 

"Propose  such  an  undertaking  to  a  navigator  pro- 
vided with  first-rate  charts  and  versed  in  all  the 
special  lore  of  his  calling,  and  he  would  finally  suc- 
ceed, it  is  true,  but  would  encounter  difficulties  due 
to  the  inhospitable  seas  of  those  parts.  Propose  it 
to  one  of  us,  who  have  none  of  the  requisite  nautical 
knowledge,  and  it  would  put  our  geography  to  the 
test  without  any  chance  of  ultimate  success.  But 
this  task  which  man,  with  all  his  reasoning  powers, 
would  in  the  great  majority  of  instances  be  incapable 
of  performing,  the  goose  accomplishes  without  the 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  113 

slightest  hesitation.  As  though  the  desired  spot 
were  right  before  its  eyes,  it  goes  straight  forward. 
The  featureless  expanse  of  ocean  and  the  confusing 
details  of  the  landscape,  the  halts  on  the  margins  of 
lakes,  the  damp  and  obscurity  of  clouds  that  have 
to  be  traversed,  the  emotions  of  terror  excited  when 
the  ambushed  hunter  discharges  his  leaden  hail — 
none  of  these  things  diverts  it  from  its  course.  If 
detours  must  be  made  in  order  to  avoid  danger  or 
find  food,  it  makes  them,  however  long  they  may 
be,  and  then  resumes  the  right  direction  without 
a  moment's  hesitation.  It  calculates  its  speed  and 
regulates  its  halts  so  as  to  arrive  neither  too  early 
nor  too  late ;  for  it  knows  perfectly  the  order  of  the 
seasons,  when  the  snow  melts  and  when  the  grass 
turns  green.  At  last,  on  a  fine  day  when  the  first 
little  flowers  are  just  peeping  through  their  snowy 
shrouds,  it  reaches  its  ocean  inlet,  its  little  island, 
its  native  heath,  its  cherished  nesting-place. 

"I  have  finished.  Now,  my  friends,  which  one 
of  you  would  like  to  engage  in  a  geography  match — 
not  with  a  veteran  goose  experienced  in  such  voy- 
ages; you  would  be  too  hopelessly  outclassed — but 
with  the  youngest  gosling,  the  merest  novice  of  them 
all?" 

"On  that  subject,"  Jules  made  answer,  "I  admit 
that  the  youngest  gosling  knows  more  than  I." 

"And  than  I,"  chimed  in  Louis,  and  Emile  added: 
"If  the  goose  knew  that  I  can't  even  find  my  bear- 
ings yet  on  the  map,  how  it  would  make  fun  of  poor 
Emile!  You  will  tell  us  so  much  about  its  clever- 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

ness,  Uncle,  that  after  this  I  sha'n't  be  able  to  meet 
a  goose  without  blushing.'' 

"It  is  very  praiseworthy  to  blush  at  one's  igno- 
rance, ' '  his  uncle  assured  him,  ' '  especially  on  a  sub- 
ject as  necessary  as  geography;  for  it  is  a  sign  that 
in  future  one  will  do  one's  best ;  but  none  may  expect 
to  rival  the  goose.  We  acquire  our  knowledge  by 
reflection,  study,  observation,  experience ;  an  animal 
does  not  acquire  knowledge,  it  possesses  knowledge 
from  its  birth.  Without  ever  having  learned  it, 
without  ever  having,  seen  it  done,  it  does  everything 
belonging  to  its  manner  of  living,  and  does  it  admi- 
rably well.  A  feeling  not  reasoned,  a  secret  impulse 
proper  to  its  nature,  guides  it  in  its  acts;  it  is  in- 
stinct, the  marvels  of  which  I  have  often  related  to 
you.  If,  to  accomplish  its  astonishing  journeys,  the 
goose  had  to  learn  geography  as  we  do,  it  would 
never  see  its  beloved  native  land  again;  but  it  has 
as  guide  the  infallible  inspiration  of  instinct,  and 
with  this  inner  compass  it  wings  its  unerring  way 
straight  toward  its  natal  islet,  however  hidden  by 
polar  fogs  that  islet  may  be. 

"Its  manner  of  traveling  is  not  less  remarkable. 
I  have  already  told  you  something  about  the  duck ; 
I  come  back  to  the  subject  in  order  to  emphasize 
the  high  degree  of  mechanical  science  possessed  by 
the  goose.  A  bird  on  the  wing  is  held  up  by  the 
air  which  its  wings  strike ;  it  is  also  impeded  in  its 
progress  by  the  air,  the  resistance  of  which  it  must 
conquer.  To  overcome  this  obstacle  with  the  least 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  115 

possible  fatigue  what  does  the  bird  do,  especially  the 
crane,  heron,  stork,  and  other  wading  birds  en- 
cumbered with  long  legs  and  a  long  neck?  They 
bring  the  neck  back  on  the  breast,  point  their  sharp 
beak  forward,  and,  holding  their  outstretched  legs 
close  together,  trail  them  behind.  With  form  thus 
trimmed  to  extreme  slimness,  and  with  beak  acting 
as  the  point  of  a  spear-head,  they  cleave  the  air  as 
a  ship  plows  the  wave  with  its  sharp  prow.  No  bird 
is  wanting  in  this  elementary  principle  of  mechanics : 
to  gather  the  members  together  and  taper  the  body 
in  the  direction  of  motion,  so  as  to  encounter  the 
least  resistance.  By  undertaking  these  very  long 
flights  in  large  flocks  the  duck  and  the  goose  improve 
upon  this  general  method. 

"Before  going  further  let  us  draw  a  compari- 
son. I  will  suppose  that  you  are  a  company  of  play- 
mates running  across  lots,  and  you  come  to  a  tract 
all  covered  with  thick  brushwood  that  has  to  be 
parted  with  feet  and  hands  before  you  can  get 
through.  If  each  one  goes  about  it  in  his  own  way, 
one  here  and  another  there  just  as  it  happens,  is  it 
not  true  that  the  sum  total  of  fatigue  for  the  whole 
company  will  be  the  greatest  possible,  since  each  one 
will  have  spent  his  strength  in  opening  a  way  for 
himself  through  the  thicket?  But  now  let  us  sup- 
pose, on  the  other  hand,  that  one  of  you,  the  most 
vigorous  of  the  company,  walks  at  the  head,  parting 
the  underbrush,  and  that  the  others  follow  him,  step 
by  step,  taking  advantage  of  the  path  opened  by  the 


116  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

leader  of  the  file.  Is  it  not  true  that  under  these 
conditions  the  sum  total  of  fatigue  will  be  the  least 
possible  ! ' ' 

"All  that  is  obvious,"  Emile  replied.  "They 
could  even,  if  it  were  a  long  way  through  the  brush- 
wood, take  turns  in  going  ahead,  and  then  no  one 
would  be  really  tired  out." 

"This  device  of  Emile 's  has,  as  you  already  know, 
been  put  in  practice  from  time  immemorial  by  ducks 
on  their  long  flights.  Nor  is  the  goose  less  happily 
inspired.  If  the  flock  is  a  small  one,  the  birds  com- 
posing it  range  themselves  in  a  continuous  single 
file,  each  following  bird  touching  with  its  beak  the 
tail  of  the  preceding  one,  in  order  that  the  way 
opened  through  the  air  may  not  have  time  to  close 
again.  If  the  flock  is  numerous,  two  files  of  equal 
length  are  formed,  and  they  join  each  other  at  an 
acute  angle,  advancing  point  first.  This  angular 
arrangement,  which  we  find  imitated  in  the  ship's 
prow,  in  the  farmer's  plowshare,  in  the  thin  edge 
of  a  wedge,  and  in  any  number  of  utensils  fashioned 
for  penetrating  a  dense  mass  by  overcoming  re- 
sistance, is  the  one  best  suited  for  cleaving  the  air 
with  the  least  possible  fatigue.  If,  to  arrange  its 
flying  squadron,  the  goose  had  taken  counsel  of  the 
most  consummate  science  of  our  engineers,  it  could 
not  have  done  better.  But  the  goose  has  no  need  of 
others;  advised  by  its  instinct,  it  knew  long  before 
us,  who  call  it  stupid,  one  of  the  great  secrets  of 
mechanics,  the  principle  of  the  wedge. 

"Moreover,  to  divide  among  all  the  members  of 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  117 

the  flock  the  excess  of  fatigue  felt  by  the  leader  of 
the  file  in  being  the  first  to  cleave  with  a  stroke 
of  his  wing  the  resisting  atmosphere,  each  one  in  its 
turn  occupies  the  post  of  honor,  the  forward  end 
of  the  single  file,  or  the  apex  of  the  two  joining  files. 
It  is  a  repetition  of  Emile's  expedient  for  penetrat- 
ing a  considerable  extent  of  brushwood.  After  its 
turn  of  service  at  the  front  the  leading  goose  re- 
tires for  rest  to  the  rear  of  one  or  other  of  the 
branches  of  the  angle,  while  a  new  leader  takes  its 
place.  By  this  means  of  equitable  rotation  exces- 
sive fatigue  on  the  part  of  any  one  of  the  migrating 
flock  is  avoided,  and  no  stragglers  are  left  behind. " 

"And  no  goose  has  to  be  urged  to  take  what  you 
call  the  post  of  honor,  the  arduous  post  at  the 
front?"  queried  Emile. 

1  '  None  has  to  be  urged.  It  is  their  duty,  and  they 
all  fulfil  it  with  a  zeal  that  in  many  instances  man 
might  take  as  a  model.  To  the  recusant  slacker  the 
smallest  gosling  would  give  a  lesson  in  what  is  owing 
to  the  common  welfare.  As  soon  as  the  leader  feels 
its  strength  weakening,  the  next  one  in  order  takes 
its  place  without  having  to  be  told. ' ' 

" Decidedly/'  interposed  Jules,  "those  geese;  with 
their  cleverness  in  geography  and  their  skill  in  the 
art  of  flying  in  flocks  and  in  devising  means  for 
mutual  assistance,  are  not  so  silly  as  they  are  said 
to  be." 

"The  flight  of  a  flock  of  geese  is  generally  very 
high;  they  do  not  come  near  the  ground  except  in 
foggy  weather.  If  on  such  an  occasion  some  farm 


118  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

chances  to  be  near,  it  occasionally  happens  that  re- 
sounding clarion  calls  answer  each  other  from  sky 
to  earth  and  earth  to  sky.  That  is  the  interchange 
of  greetings  between  wild  and  tame  geese.  The 
wild  ones  invite  the  captives  to  come  and  join  them 
in  their  pilgrimage  to  the  promised  land  of  the 
North.  The  proposal  puts  the  poultry-yard  all  in 
a  turmoil,  so  compelling  is  the  call  of  instinct.  The 
farm  geese  become  excited,  scream,  beat  their  sides 
with  their  large  wings;  but  the  plumpness  of  cap- 
tivity prevents  their  flight.  One  less  impeded  takes 
wing,  rises  in  the  air,  and  is  gone." 

"To  SpitzbergenT'  asked  Emile. 

"Yes,  to  Spitzbergen,  if  strength  does  not  fail 
it,  but  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  it  will  be  able  to 
follow  its  wild  companions  to  the  end. 

"The  goose  feeds  chiefly  on  herbage.  With  its 
wide  beak  furnished  at  the  edges  with  little  scales 
resembling  sharp  teeth,  it  browses  the  turf  very 
much  as  does  the  sheep.  A  field  of  green  wheat  par- 
ticularly delights  it.  If  a  rather  large  flock  alights 
there  the  harvest  is  seriously  injured.  During  the 
devastation  sentries  keep  a  look-out,  some  here, 
others  there,  motionless,  neck  outstretched,  eye  and 
ear  on  the  alert.  Let  danger  approach,  and  immedi- 
ately the  trumpet  sounds.  At  the  warning  the  flock 
ceases  grazing,  runs  with  wings  open  to  get  a  start, 
then  takes  flight  and  mounts  obliquely  to  heights 
above  the  reach  of  a  shot.  The  same  precautions 
are  taken  in  the  hours  of  repose ;  furthermore,  actu- 
ated by  an  excess  of  prudence,  they  refuse  to  trust 


THE  WILD  GOOSE  119 

entirely  to  the  sentinels,  but  each  sleeps  with  one  eye 
open,  as  we  say.  Thus  are  the  ruses  of  the  hunter 
nearly  always  baffled  when  he  tries  to  get  near  them. 
"I  will  stop  here  for  to-day.  I  hope  that,  with- 
out going  into  other  details  that  would  carry  us  too 
far,  I  have  reinstated  the  slandered  bird  in  your 
esteem.  The  goose  is  not  silly;  on  the  contrary,  it 
possesses  to  a  high  degree  the  wiles,  the  talents, 
in  fact  everything  necessary  for  the  admirable  ful- 
filment of  its  mission  as  a  goose." 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

THE   DOMESTIC   GOOSE 

BEFOEE  America  had  given  us  the  turkey,  the 
goose  was  sought  for  its  flesh,  which  does  not 
lack  merit,  although  inferior  to  that  of  the  bird 
from  the  New  World.  Eoast  goose  was  the  dish  of 
honor  at  family  feasts.  Now  that  the  turkey  has 
supplanted  it  in  the  solemnities  of  the  table,  it  is 
raised  chiefly  for  its  fat,  which  is  very  fine  and 
savory,  rivaling  butter  in  its  uses.  As  to  its  flesh, 
relegated  to  secondary  rank  and  regarded  as  a  mere 
accessory,  it  is  salted  and  preserved  like  pork.  The 
region  of  which  Toulouse  is  the  center  is  the  most 
renowned  for  this  branch  of  agricultural  industry. 
Large  flocks  are  raised  there  of  a  species  of  goose 
called  the  Toulouse  goose,  remarkable  for  its  large 
size  and  its  tendency  to  corpulence.  Its  pouch  of 
fat  hanging  down  under  its  stomach  reaches  even  to 
the  ground,  and  grows  so  heavy  as  to  interfere  with 
the  bird's  walk.  The  plumage  is  dark  gray,  with 
brown  or  black  spots;  the  beak  is  orange,  and  the 
legs  flesh  color. 

"When  it  is  desired  to  fatten  the  goose  to  the 
utmost  limit,  the  process  calls  for  the  fundamental 
conditions  expounded  in  the  chapter  on  the  poulard ; 
that  is  to  say,  as  much  food  as  the  stomach  can  bear, 

120 


THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE 

immobility,  complete  repose,  and  almost  continual 
sleep.  These  principles  recalled  to  mind,  let  us  con- 
sider the  Toulouse  method.  The  geese  are  shut 
up  in  a  dark  place,  cool  without  being  damp,  where 
they  cannot  hear  the  noises  of  the  poultry-yard. 
The  trumpet-calls  of  their  free  companions  would 
awaken  in  them  vexatious  regrets  and  would  inter- 
fere with  their  digestion.  Three  times  a  day  the 
woman  employed  to  fatten  them  seats  herself  on  a 
low  chair  and  takes  them  one  by  one  between  her 
knees  so  as  to  control  their  movements.  She  opens 
the  beak  by  force  and  thrusts  far  down  the  throat 
the  tube  of  a  tin  funnel. ' ' 

"That  funnel  is  for  feeding  them?"  asked  Emile. 

"Precisely." 

"Then  they  are  compelled  to  swallow  even  if  they 
don't  want  to." 

' '  What  does  the  f attener  care  ?  All  that  concerns 
her  is  not  to  wound  the  bird  during  the  operation. 
Furthermore,  to  make  the  utensil  slip  into  its  place 
better  she  takes  care  to  oil  the  end  of  it  a  little. 
The  poor  creature  struggles  and  protests  as  best  it 
can  against  the  violence  to  which  it  is  subjected. 
But  all  in  vain:  the  woman  keeps  at  it.  Now  she 
pours  a  handful  of  maize  into  the  funnel,  and  as  the 
grains  would  not  descend  of  themselves,  the  bird 
contracting  that  part  of  its  throat  not  reached  by  the 
tube,  she  pushes  them  down  with  little  blows  on  the 
crop  with  a  wooden  rammer;  she  crams  (that  is  the 
word)  the  patient's  stomach  with  maize.  From 
time  to  time  a  little  cold  water  is  given  to  aid  this 


123  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

painful  deglutition.  When  the  crop  is  full,  which  is 
ascertained  by  the  touch  of  the  hand,  the  bird  is 
set  free ;  another  takes  its  place  and,  willy  nilly,  re- 
ceives the  funnel  in  its  throat.  During  the  thirty- 
five  days  that  this  feeding  lasts,  a  goose  consumes 
forty  liters  of  corn ;  that  is  to  say,  more  than  a  liter 
a  day." 

"  After  such  a  cramming  with  quantities  of  corn 
rammed  down  by  main  force, ' 9  remarked  Jules,  ' i  the 
goose  must  get  discouraged  and  pine  away." 

"Get  discouraged!  You  don't  realize  a  goose's 
appetite.  The  miserable  creature  becomes  accus- 
tomed to  this  diet,  even  takes  a  liking  to  it,  and 
toward  the  end  of  the  operation  comes  of  its  own  ac- 
cord and  opens  its  beak  to  receive  the  funnel  which 
ere  long  proves  fatal  to  it.  Soon  we  see  the  pouch 
of  fat  under  the  stomach  dragging  on  the  ground, 
the  orange  color  of  the  beak  turning  pale,  the  breath- 
ing rendered  difficult,  and  every  sign  pointing  to  a 
near  end — suffocation  by  excess  of  corpulence.  But 
the  knife  forestalls  this.  The  bird  is  cut  into 
quarters  and  salted;  its  melted  grease  is  put  into 
pots  or  bottles,  where  it  can  be  kept  for  two  years 
with  its  beautiful  white  color  and  fine  flavor  unim- 
paired. 

"In  other  countries  the  fattening  process  includes 
the  application,  in  its  utmost  rigor,  of  the  principle 
of  immobility.  Under  an  earthen  pot,  the  bottom  of 
which  has  been  broken,  the  goose  is  put  in  such  a 
way  that  only  its  head  is  left  free,  projecting  through 
the  opening.  Thus  immured  in  its  earthenware 


THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE 

coffin,  which  barely  permits  it  to  turn  round,  the 
goose  has  only  one  distraction,  eating.  With  food 
served  in  abundance,  it  eats  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
it,  and  consumes  so  much  that  at  the  end  of  two 
weeks  it  becomes  a  ball  of  fat.  To  get  it  out  of  its 
cell  the  pot  must  be  broken. 

"Elsewhere,  especially  in  Alsace,  the  goose  is 
shut  up  in  a  little  pine  box  so  narrow  that  the  bird 
cannot  turn  round  in  it.  The  floor  of  the  cell  is  made 
of  slats  far  enough  apart  for  the  dung  to  fall 
through;  the  front  wall  is  pierced  with  an  opening 
for  the  passage  of  the  head,  and  beneath  this  open- 
ing is  a  trough  always  full  of  water,  in  which  are 
placed  a  few  pieces  of  charcoal  as  a  disinfectant. 
Charcoal,  in  fact,  possesses  the  property  of  absorb- 
ing infectious  gases,  and  thus  prevents  the  corrup- 
tion that  might  develop  in  the  bird's  drink.  The 
captive  in  its  narrow  cage  is  kept  in  the  cellar  or  at 
least  in  a  dark  place.  Morning  and  night  it  is 
forcibly  stuffed  with  corn  softened  by  several  hours ' 
soaking  in  water;  the  rest  of  the  time  it  thrusts  its 
head  through  its  dormer-window  and  drinks, 
dabbling  as  much  as  it  pleases  in  the  trough  just 
below.  With  twenty-five  liters  of  corn — for  the 
northern  species  is  smaller  than  that  of  Toulouse — 
the  goose,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  is  fattened  suf- 
ficiently. 

6 1  The  presence  of  a  ball  of  grease  under  each  wing, 
together  with  difficulty  in  breathing,  announces  that 
the  time  has  arrived  for  cutting  the  prisoner's 
throat ;  if  deferred,  it  would  die  from  suffocation. 


124*  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"The  lack  of  exercise  that  attends  the  fattening 
process  in  captivity,  whether  in  a  pot  with  broken 
bottom  or  in  a  pine  box,  makes  its  effects  felt  prin- 
cipally in  the  structure  of  the  liver,  which  grows 
to  an  enormous  size  and  'becomes  charged  with  fat, 
as  I  have  already  told  you  in  speaking  of  the  duck. 
With  the  method  used  in  Alsace  the  liver  attains 
the  weight  of  half  a  kilogram  and  sometimes  double 
that.  Moreover,  in  the  process  of  cooking,  a  goose 
yields  from  three  to  five  pounds  of  fat  admirably 
suited  for  use  with  vegetables  through  the  rest  of 
the  year.  Goose  livers  serve  the  same  purposes  as 
ducks'  livers:  they  go  to  the  making  of  the  ragouts 
of  Nerac  and  Toulouse,  and  they  form  the  chief  in- 
gredient in  the  celebrated  Strasburg  pates  de  foie 
gras. 

1 '  We  have  not  yet  exhausted  the  uses  of  the  goose. 
Before  the  invention  of  steel  pens,  in  general  use  to- 
day, large  goose  quills  were  employed  for  writing. 
Their  preparation  consisted  in  passing  them  through 
hot  ashes  and  then  scraping  them  a  little  to  remove 
their  greasy  coating,  which  would  prevent  the  ink's 
flowing.  Of  very  convenient  size  for  the  fingers, 
their  combined  firmness  and  elastic  flexibility  made 
them  also  admirably  adapted  for  writing;  but  they 
had  to  be  recut  from  time  to  time,  and  the  handling 
of  a  penknife  was  not  without  its  difficulties,  its  dan- 
gers even,  in  inexperienced  hands  like  yours.  So 
steel  pens  have  almost  entirely  supplanted  them. 

"Another  product  of  the  goose's  plumage  con- 
sists in  the  small  feathers  and  down  used  for  bed- 


THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE  125 

ding.  I  have  told  you  how  aquatic  birds,  especially 
those  of  cold  countries,  have  under  their  outside  coat 
of  feathers,  which  is  impregnated  with  oil  to  resist 
wet  and  storm,  an  inner  coat  composed  of  the  finest 
down  and  very  fit  for 
protecting  the  bird 
from  the  cold.  This 
down  we  called  eider- 
down. I  revert  to  it 
now  on  account  of  its 
importance. 

"The  best  eider- 
down is  furnished  by 
a  kind  of  duck  called  Eider  duck 

the  eider-duck,  intermediate  in  size  between  the 
goose  and  the  tame  duck.  This  duck  lives  in  a 
wild  state  in  the  frozen  regions  of  the  North.  It 
is  whitish  in  color  with  a  black  head  as  well  as  black 
stomach  and  tail.  The  female,  which  is  rather 
smaller  than  the  male,  is  gray  except  for  some  brown 
spots  under  the  body.  Its  food  is  composed  of  fish, 
which  its  untiring  wing  enables  it  to  catch  at  long  dis- 
tances from  the  coast  and  well  out  to  sea.  On  the 
water  all  day  searching  for  fish,  the  eider-duck  re- 
turns at  night  to  some  icy  islet,  a  warm  enough  rest- 
ing place  for  its  purpose,  well  muffled  as  it  is  in  eider- 
down. 

"In  some  hollow  of  the  sharp  rocks  of  the  shore  it 
builds  its  nest,  composed  on  the  outside  of  mosses 
and  dry  seaweed,  and  on  the  inside  of  a  thick  eider- 
down lining  which  the  mother  plucks  from  her  stom- 


126  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

ach  and  breast.    On  this  soft  little  bed  rest  five  or  six 
dull  green  eggs. ' '  t 

6  '  We  have  already  seen  the  wild  duck  plucking  its 
stomach  to  cover  its  eggs  with  down,"  put  in  Jules. 

"The  eider-duck  does  the  same,  but  with  a  greater 
expenditure  of  down.  When  the  mother  leaves  her 
nest  for  a  moment,  she  shelters  her  eggs  under  an 
abundant  covering  of  her  finest  down.  After  the  de- 
parture of  the  brood,  those  who  hunt  for  eiderdown, 
especially  the  Icelanders,  visit  the  abandoned  nests 
and  collect  the  down,  but  not  without  danger,  since 
the  nests  are  generally  situated  in  inaccessible  places 
on  the  ledges  of  high  cliffs.  They  can  reach  them 
only  by  being  lowered  with  ropes  along  the  face  of 
the  precipitous  rocks. 

"The  quilts  that  we  call  eiderdown  are  large  cov- 
erlets filled  with  these  very  fine  feathers.  Their 
flocky  mass,  very  light  in  spite  of  its  size,  is  the  best 
covering  for  retaining  heat.  Those  most  in  de- 
mand are  made  of  the  down  of  the  eider-duck,  and  are 
so  elastic  and  light  that  one  can  press  and  hold  in  two 
hands  the  quantity  of  down  necessary  for  a  large 
bed-coverlet.  But  as  this  down  is  rare  and  very 
high-priced,  the  coarser  kind,  from  the  poultry-yard 
duck  and  goose,  is  commonly  used. 

"Every  year  the  sheep  yields  its  fleece  to  the 
shearer,  and  in  the  same  way,  four  times  a  year,  the 
goose  is  robbed  of  a  part  of  its  fine  feathers  and 
down.  The  operation  is  especially  easy  at  molt- 
ing time,  for  then  the  feathers  come  out  with  the  least 


THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE  127 

effort.  The  goose  is  plucked,  but  not  entirely,  you 
understand,  beneath  the  stomach,  on  the  neck,  and  on 
the  under  side  of  the  wings ;  it  is  only  when  dead  that 
it  is  plucked  completely.  This  harvest  of  feathers 
is  put  into  a  bag  without  being  pressed,  and  must 
next  be  subjected  for  some  time  to  the  heat  of  an 
oven  from  which  bread  has  just  been  taken  out. 
This  removes  its  disagreeable  odor  and  the  parasites 
that  often  infest  it.  If,  however,  other  parasites 
appear  later,  notably  moths,  greedy,  as  you  know, 
for  anything  of  animal  origin,  such  as  cloth,  hair, 
down,  or  wool,  the  feathers  must  be  fumigated  with 
burning  sulphur. 

' l  The  eggs  of  the  goose  are  white  and  remarkably 
large,  as  one  would  expect  from  the  size  of  the  bird. 
When  one  sees,  generally  in  February,  a  goose  drag- 
ging with  its  beak  some  bits  of  straw  and  carrying 
them  to  its  nesting  place,  it  is  a  sign  that  laying  time 
is  approaching.  The  goose  is  then  kept  at  home 
instead  of  being  sent  out  into  the  fields.  A  laying 
numbers  fifteen  eggs  at  the  most ;  but  if  care  is  taken 
to  visit  the  nest  and  remove  the  eggs  as  fast  as  they 
are  laid,  the  number  increases  and  may  go,  it  is  said, 
as  high  as  forty.  The  goose  has  the  same  fault  as 
the  duck:  she  is  not  a  very  assiduous  brooder. 
Hence  it  is  thought  best  to  have  the  turkey  do  the 
setting.  As  for  the  hen,  she  is,  despite  her  motherly 
qualities,  out  of  the  question,  however  small  the  set- 
ting may  be :  goose  eggs  are  so  large  that  she  could 
not  cover  more  than  half  a  dozen  at  the  most. 


128  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"  Incubation  lasts  a  month.  As  the  eggs  do  not 
all  hatch  at  the  same  time  and  as  the  brooder,  goose 
or  turkey,  might  be  tempted  to  abandon  the  backward 
eggs  in  order  to  take  care  of  the  first-born  goslings, 
it  is  advisable  to  take  the  little  ones  from  the  nest  as 
fast  as  they  hatch  and  to  put  them  in  a  wool-lined 
basket.  When  the  hatching  is  all  finished,  the  family 
is  given  back  to  the  mother.  Warmth  and  a  special 
diet  are  necessary  the  first  few  days.  The  goslings 
are  fed  with  a  mixture  of  bread-crumbs,  corn-meal, 
milk,  lettuce,  and  chopped  nettles.  At  the  end  of 
eight  or  ten  days  this  careful  treatment  may  cease, 
and  if  the  weather  is  fine  the  mother  goose  can  be 
allowed  to  lead  the  brood  whither  she  pleases,  even 
to  the  neighboring  pond,  providing  the  water  is 
warm.  The  male,  the  gander,  as  it  is  called,  generr 
ally  accompanies  the  family,  protects  it,  and  proves 
his  courage  in  time  of  danger.  Woe  betide  the 
thoughtless  person  who,  even  with  no  evil  intention, 
approaches  the  goslings.  The  gander  runs  at  him, 
neck  outstretched,  with  loud  and  hissing  cry,  and 
gives  him  battle  with  wing  and  beak.  When  I  was 
young  I  knew  a  little  scamp  who  threw  a  stone  at 
the  goslings  and  was  straightway  knocked  down  by 
a  blow  of  the  gander 's  wing  and  then  well  thrashed. 
Timely  aid  was  rendered,  else  the  imprudent  assail- 
ant would  have  been  disfigured  by  the  bird. ' ' 

"You  caught  it  that  time,  stone-thrower ! "  cried 
Emile.  "For  my  part,  I  never  pick  a  quarrel  with 
geese ;  but  one  day  they  chased  me  and  caught  me  by 
the  blouse.  Oh,  how  frightened  I  was!" 


THE  DOMESTIC  GOOSE  129 

"If  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  defend  your- 
selves, children,  do  not  go  near  the  goose  when  she 
has  her  little  ones  with  her.  She  is  very  distrustful 
then  and  might  do  you  harm." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   PIGEON 

fT^HE  strong  resemblance  that  the  tame  pigeon 
JL  often  bears  to  the  wild  one  known  as  the  rock- 
pigeon  makes  us  suspect  this  latter  to  be  the  ancestor 
of  the  bird  that  inhabits  our  dove-cotes.  The  rock- 
pigeon  has  ashy-blue  plumage  with  black-spotted 
wings  and  pure-white  tail.  The  neck  and  breast  are 
changeable  in  color  according  to  the  light  in  which 
they  are  seen,  and  shine  with  a  metallic  luster,  in 
which  sometimes  purple  and  sometimes  golden  green 
dominates." 

"That  is  exactly  the  ordinary  plumage  of  our  pi- 
geons, ' '  said  Emile.  "When  they  come  and  peck  the 
bread  that  I  crumble  for  them  in  the  sun,  I  like  to  see 
their  magnificient  breasts  shining  first  with  one  color 
and  then  with  another,  every  time  the  bird  moves." 

"Fond  of  traveling  and  endowed  with  a  power  of 
flight  in  accord  with  this  predilection,  the  rock-pi- 
geon is  scattered  over  the  greater  part  of  the  world. 
Nevertheless  it  is  rare  in  France,  where  a  few 
wretched  pairs,  always  in  dread  of  the  talons  of  the 
bird  of  prey  or  the  hunter's  shot,  make  their  nests 
in  the  most  sparsely  settled  cantons,  on  the  shelves 
of  high  rocks.  The  rocky  and  mountainous  regions 

130 


THE  PIGEON  131 

of  the  Mediterranean  islands  are  their  chosen  haunts 
in  Europe." 

"But  it  is  no  uncommon  thing, "  Louis  remarked, 
"to  hear  of  wild  pigeons  being  shot  in  this  country." 

"You  confound  the  rock-pigeon,  my  friend,  with 
another  kind  of  wild  pigeon,  the  wood-pigeon.  This, 
as  its  name  indicates,  perches  on  the  branches  of  tall 
trees,  which  the  rock-pigeon  never  does." 

"Yes,  that 's  so,"  Jules  interjected.  "I  have 
never  seen  pigeons  that  are  descended  from  the  rock- 
pigeon  alighting  on  trees.  They  alight  on  rocks,  on 
roofs,  or  on  the  ground." 

"In  its  free  state  the  rock-pigeon  builds  its  nest 
in  the  hollows  of  rocks ;  the  wood-pigeon,  on  the  com- 
trary,  builds  in  trees,  in  the  depths  of  dense  forests, 
where  it  finds  in  abundance  the  acorn  and  beech-nut, 
its  principal  food.  These  habits  are  not  the  only  dif- 
ference between  the  two  birds.  The  wood-pigeon  is 
much  larger;  its  breast  has  the  color  of  lees  of 
wine;  its  neck,  gleaming  with  variegated  metallic 
glints  like  that  of  its  brother,  is  further  adorned  on 
each  side  with  a  white  spot  in  the  shape  of  a  cross. 
Its  flight  is  sustained  and  rapid,  its  cooing  sonorous, 
its  sight  piercing.  It  feeds  on  all  sorts  of  seeds,  es- 
pecially acorns,  which  it  swallows  whole. 

"Wood-pigeons  like  to  perch  on  dead  branches  at 
the  tops  of  trees.  During  the  cold  winter  mornings 
they  stay  there  motionless,  waiting  for  a  little 
warmth  to  come  with  the  rising  sun  and  arouse  them 
from  their  torpor.  In  summer  they  frequent  full- 
grown  forest-trees,  and  their  cooing  may  be  heard  in 


132  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  very  midst  of  the  dense  foliage.  Their  nesting 
place  is  by  preference  at  the  junction  of  several  fork- 
ing branches.  The  male  goes  forth  and  gathers 
from  neighboring  trees,  never  from  the  ground,  the 
building  material  of  dry  twigs.  If  he  sees  a  dead 
twig  attached  to  the  branch  on  which  he  is  perching, 
he  seizes  it  with  his  claws,  sometimes  with  the  beak, 
and  tries  to  break  it  either  by  leaning  on  it  with  all 
his  weight  or  by  pulling  -it  toward  him.  Possessed 
of  his  prize,  he  returns  at  once  to  his  mate,  who  con- 
tents herself  with  putting  the  materials  into  place 
without  taking  part  in  getting  them.  In  building  the 
nest,  therefore,  the  male  is  the  worker  and  the  fe- 
male the  architect;  but  an  architect  without  talent, 
we  must  admit,  for  the  structure  is  nothing  but  a 
mass  of  intertwined  sticks  without  lining  of  feathers 
and  flock,  and,  worse  still,  without  firmness.  Hence 
it  is  not  unusual  for  this  nest  to  fall  to  pieces  before 
the  brood  has  taken  its  flight ;  fortunately  the  strong 
branches  on  which  it  rests  save  the  young  ones  from 
a  disastrous  fall. 

"  Wild  and  mistrustful,  the  wood-pigeon  has  never 
been  willing  to  accept  the  calculated  hospitality  of 
the  pigeon-house;  it  prefers  the  perilous  life  of  the 
woods  to  the  full-fed  existence  of  servitude.  This  is 
the  wild  pigeon  that  frequently  falls  before  the  hunt- 
er's fire.  In  certain  defiles  of  the  Pyrenees  it  is 
caught  with  large  nets,  hundreds  at  a  time.  The 
rock-pigeon,  on  the  contrary,  has  from  time  imme- 
morial been  dependent  on  man ;  and  in  return  for  the 
shelter  of  the  pigeon-house  which  protects  it  from 


THE  PIGEON  133 

birds  of  prey  it  has  been  willing  to  forget  so  com- 
pletely the  rocks  where  it  first  nested  that  to-day  one 
seldom  finds,  at  least  in  our  country,  any  wild  pairs. 

*  *  Not  all  our  pigeons,  however,  show  the  same  de- 
gree of  tameness ;  far  from  it.  Some,  voluntary  cap- 
tives rather  than  real  prisoners,  are  faithful  to  the 
pigeon-house  only  as  long  as  they  find  suitable  food 
in  the  neighboring  fields,  whither  they  go  in  flocks. 
If  the  house  is  not  to  their  liking,  or  if  food  is  lack- 
ing, they  seek  another  abode,  the  more  adventur- 
ous sometimes  even  returning  to  the  wild  life.  The 
others,  thoroughly  enslaved,  have  completely  lost 
their  desire  for  independence.  Seldom  do  they  leave 
their  roof,  and  some  are  such  stay-at-homes  that  the 
most  pressing  hunger  could  not  make  them  go  out 
and  try  to  find  a  little  food  for  themselves  in  the 
neighboring  furrows.  Food  must  always  be  given 
them,  for  they  are  incapable  of  procuring  it  them- 
selves. 

"  Those  first  mentioned,  the  pigeons  that  venture 
afield  and  find  food  for  themselves,  are  called  rock- 
pigeons,  after  the  wild  pigeon  whose  ways,  and  fre- 
quently whose  plumage,  they  have  retained  in  part. 
They  are  also  known  as  flighty  pigeons  (fuyards), 
either  on  account  of  their  occasional  distant  expedi- 
tions, or  because  they  sometimes  take  flight  from  the 
pigeon-house  and  never  return.  They  are  the  least 
costly  to  raise,  but  they  are  small  and  not  very  pro- 
ductive, as  they  lay  only  two  or  three  times  a  year. 
The  second  kind,  those  that  scarcely  ever  leave  the 
pigeon-cote  and  cannot  do  without  our  care,  are 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

called  cote-pigeons.    Their  maintenance  costs  more 
because  they  must  be  fed  all  the  year  round ;  but  in 

compensation  they 
do  not  ravage  the 
neighboring  har- 
vests, which  cannot 
be  said  of  the  rock- 
pigeons;  and  beside 
they  are  much  more 
productive,  their  pe- 
riods of  laying  num- 
pigeon""  bering  as  many  as 

ten  a  year.  Modified  from  the  earliest  times  by 
man's  intervention,  the  cote-pigeon  includes  a  num- 
ber of  varieties 
in  which  the 
traits  of  the 
primitive  species 
are  often  no 
longer  recogniz- 
able. Let  us  men- 
tion some  of 
these. 

"  First  of  all 
are  the  pigeons 
with  feathered 
legs  and  feet, 
looking  as  if  they 
wore  gaiters.  This  Pouter  Pigeon 

growth  of  feathers  reaches  to  the  very  tips  of  the 


THE  PIGEON  135 

claws,  forming  a  cumbersome  and  unsightly  sort  of 
footgear  which  is  found  to  be  due  to  captivity,  the 
wild  bird  never  having  anything  of  the  kind.  Then 
come  the  pouter  pigeons,  which  have  the  faculty  of 
swallowing  air  and  inflating  the  crop  in  a  large  ball, 
so  that  the  base  of  the  neck  seems  to  be  affected  with 
the  deformity  known  as  goiter.  That  is  their  way 
of  showing  off :  the  larger  the  ball,  the  prouder  they 
are  of  their  figure. " 

"What  a  queer  idea,"  Emile  exclaimed,  "to  think 
it  improves  one 's  looks  to  have  a  frightful  goiter  or 
to  wear  those  feathered  leggings  that  trail  in  the 
mud  and  interfere  with  walking ! ' ' 

"A  life  of  idleness,  my  friend,  engenders  many 
caprices:  examples  abound  in  man  even  more  than 
in  pigeons.  But  let  us  get  on;  these  things  do  not 
concern  us. 

6 1  Now,  here  are  some  pi'geons  that  have  their  heads 
adorned  with  a  crown  of  feathers,  are  shod  like  the 
preceding,  and  imitate  in  their  cooing  the  roll  of  a 
drum. ' ' 

"Then  they  ought  to  be  called,  from  the  roll  of 
the  drum,  drummer-pigeons, "  declared  Emile. 

"You  have  hit  it  exactly:  that  is  precisely  their 
name.  Here  are  others  with  trailing  wings,  tail 
erect  and  expanded  like  a  fan,  and  the  body  in  an 
almost  continual  state  of  trembling.  You  would  say 
they  had  a  fever.  The  spread  tail  gives  them  the 
name  of  fan-tails,  while  from  their  ceaseless  shaking 
they  are  sometimes  called  shakers.  Euffled  pigeons 


136  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

have  the  neck  encircled  with  a  ruff  of  disordered 
feathers.  Jacobins  wear  a  sort  of  hood  resembling 
a  monk's  cowl.  The  turbit  carries  on  the  nape  of 

its  neck  a  tuft  of  feath- 
ers thrown  back  and 
hollowed  out  like  a 
shell.  Tumblers  are 
remarkable  for  their 
strange  evolutions  in 
the  air:  in  mid-flight 
they  will  suddenly  let 
Jacobins  themselves  fall  and 

turn  a  somersault  as  if  shot  in  the  wing.  This  rec- 
reation is  their  favorite  pastime." 

"The  pleasure  of  a  vertical  fall,"  remarked  Jules, 
"accompanied  by  a  somersault,  must  carry  some  fear 
with  it.  Perhaps  that  is  what  gives  zest  to  this  ex- 
ercise." 

"But  the  pigeon  pulls  up  in  time!"  queried  Emile. 
"Whenever  it  wishes  to,"  his  uncle  replied,  "it 
brings  to  an  end  its  downward  hurtling  from  these 
airy  heights,  ordinary  flying  is  resumed,  and  pres- 
ently the  tumbles  begin  again  finer  than  ever.  Here 
let  us  pause,  without  exhausting  the  list  of  varieties, 
amounting  to  twenty-four,  counting  only  the  princi- 
pal ones.  These  few  examples  show  you  sufficiently 
what  diversity  pigeon-house  life  has  stamped  on  the 
form,  habits,  and  plumage  of  the  primitive  bird. 

"All  pigeons,  wild  as  well  as  tame,  lay  never  more 
than  two  eggs  to  a  hatching,  from  which  generally 
spring  brother  and  sister.  The  cares  of  brooding 


THE  PIGEON  137 

are  shared  by  the  father  and  mother  alike,  a  practice 
found  in  no  other  tame  bird.  In  the  morning,  when 
hunger  makes  itself  felt,  the  female  calls  the  male 
by  a  peculiar  cooing  and  invites  him  to  come  and 
take  her  place  on  the  eggs,  which  he  does  with  alac- 
rity. About  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
the  roles  change.  If  the  pigeon  which  until  then  has 
remained  on  the  nest  does  not  see  its  mate  coming, 
there  follows  an  anxious  search,  with  admonitory 
cooings  and,  in  case  of  need,  admonitory  peckings; 
and  the  laggard  is  brought  back  to  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  brooding.  But  as  a  rule  the  mother  is  irre- 
proachably punctual;  she  returns  to  the  nest  at  the 
hour  agreed  upon  and  does  not  leave  it  again  until 
the  next  morning.  Incubation  takes  seventeen  or 
eighteen  days. 

' i  The  little  ones  are  born  naked,  blind,  ungraceful. 
The  father  and  mother,  sometimes  one,  sometimes 
the  other,  feed  them  from  the  beak.  This  beak-feed- 
ing method  of  the  pigeons  is  exceptional  and  de- 
serves special  consideration.  I  need  not  tell  you 
how  other  birds  feed  their  brood ;  any  one  that  has 
ever  raised  a  sparrow  will  know  that." 

"The  little  sparrow,"  Jules  hastened  to  explain, 
"opens  its  beak  as  wide  as  it  can  and  the  parents  put 
into  it  the  food  they  have  brought,  just  as  I  put  a 
grasshopper  into  it,  or  a  piece  of  a  cherry,  or  a 
soaked  bread-crumb. ' ' 

"Jules  forgets,"  said  Emile,  "that  it  is  well  to  tap 
the  little  bird  on  the  tail  to  excite  its  appetite  and 
make  it  open  its  beak." 


138  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Emile's  improvement  is  not  indispensable," 
Uncle  Paul  replied.  "If  it  is  hungry  the  bird  will 
open  its  beak  without  being  asked.  Into  this  beak 
that  gapes  so  wide  the  parents  put  the  point  of  theirs 
and  drop  whatever  prize  they  have  found ;  but  if  the 
little  bird  is  very  young  the  father  and  mother  begin 
by  half-digesting  in  their  own  stomach  the  food  des- 
tined for  the  little  one.  Then  they  put  their  beak 
into  the  little  one  rs  and  disgorge  the  nutritious  pap 
that  they  have  prepared. 

"Well,  pigeons  do  exactly  the  reverse:  it  is  the 
father  and  mother  that  gape,  and  the  little  ones  that 
plunge  their  beak  deep  down  into  the  throat  of  the 
parent  bird.  The  latter  is  then  seized  with  a  con- 
vulsion of  the  stomach  accompanied  by  a  rapid  trem- 
bling of  the  wings  and  body.  Little  plaintive  cries 
denote  that  the  operation  is  perhaps  not  quite  pain- 
less. From  the  crop  thus  done  violence  to,  the  half- 
digested  nutritive  matter  comes  up  in  a  jet  that 
passes  into  the  half-open  beak  of  the  nursling. 
Twice  a  day  the  little  pigeons  receive  their  food  in 
this  way ;  twice  a  day,  but  no  more,  so  painful  to  the 
nurses  seems  this  mode  of  feeding  from  beak  to 
beak." 

"I  should  think,"  said  Jules,  "that  the  parents 
would  feel  rather  uncomfortable  when  the  young  pi- 
geon tickles  their  throat,  deep  down,  with  its  beak. 
If  we  can  judge  by  what  would  happen  to  us,  the 
stomach  would  rebel  and  would  throw  up  its  contents 
painfully." 

' '  That  is  apparently  the  way  of  it.     The  disgorged 


THE  PIGEON  139 

food  is  a  pap  of  seeds  all  ground  up  fine  in  the  crop ; 
but  for  the  first  three  or  four  days  after  hatching  a 
special  food  is  given,  fine  and  strengthening,  suited 
to  the  weakness  of  the  little  one.  It  is  a  white  sub- 
stance, almost  liquid,  having  the  appearance  of  real 
milk.  It  does  not  come  entirely  from  digested  food ; 
for  the  most  part  it  consists  of  a  sort  of  milkfood 
that  is  distilled  by  the  stomach  on  this  occasion  only. 
So  for  the  first  days  of  the  brood 's  rearing  the  pi- 
geons have,  deep  down  in  the  throat,  a  sort  of  milk 
factory,  or  what  one  might  call  the  equivalent  of  an 
udder." 

' l That  reminds  me,"  Jules  interposed,  "of  a  joke 
common  enough  among  us  fellows.  When  we  want 
to  gull  some  poor  innocent,  we  tell  him  that  pigeons 
suck.  This  jest  comes  nearer  the  truth  than  is  com- 
monly thought.  Pigeons  do  not  suck  the  breast, 
it  is  true,  but  it  might  well  enough  be  said  that  they 
are  suckled,  since  what  they  are  fed  on  has  so  much 
resemblance  to  milk." 

i '  Little  pigeons  stay  in  the  nest  a  long  time, ' '  re- 
sumed Uncle  Paul.  ' '  Entirely  covered  with  feathers 
and  almost  as  large  as  their  parents,  they  still  con- 
tinue to  receive  parental  care.  To  induce  them  to 
shift  for  themselves  and  give  up  their  place  when  the 
time  for  a  new  laying  approaches,  some  cuffs  have 
to  be  given  to  these  spoiled  children  that  are  so  re- 
luctant to  leave  home.  But  at  last  they  consent, 
though  not  without  returning  from  time  to  time  to 
torment  the  mother  with  their  lamentations  and  to 
beg  her  for  something  to  eat.  The  father,  less  weak 


140  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

on  the  side  of  his  affections,  thenceforth  receives 
these  importunate  lazy-bodies  with  a  peck  of  the 
beak. 

"Let  us  consider  certain  other  details  of  the  pi- 
geon's habits.  I  will  not  tell  you,  these  things  being 
pretty  well  known  to  you,  of  the  cooings  of  the  pigeon 
when  it  puffs  out  its  throat,  of  its  ceremonious  salu- 
tations, its  bowing  to  the  very  ground,  its  pirouettes 
when  it  shows  off  before  its  mate.  I  shall  interest 
you  more  by  acquainting  you  with  its  gregarious  in- 
stinct, which  impels  it  to  assemble  in  immense  flocks 
when  it  travels,  in  its  wild  state,  to  find  food." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  STOKY   FKOM   AUDUBON  1 

T  T  ERE  is  what  we  are  told  on  this  subject  by  the 
A  A  celebrated  ornithologist,  Audubon,  whom  I 
have  already  quoted  in  describing  to  you  the  habits 
of  the  turkey  as  it  is  found  in  its  free  state  in  the 
great  forests  of  its  native  land. 

i '  l  The  passenger  pigeon,  or,  as  it  is  usually  named 
in  America,  the  wild  pigeon,  moves  with  extreme 
rapidity,  propelling  itself  by  quickly  repeated  flaps 
of  the  wing,  which  it  brings  more  or  less  near  the 
body,  according  to  the  degree  of  velocity  which  is 
required.  .  .  . 

"  'This  great  power  of  flight  is  seconded  by  as 
great  a  power  of  vision,  which  enables  them,  as  they 
travel  at  that  swift  rate,  to  inspect  the  country  below, 
discover  their  food  with  facility,  and  thus  obtain  the 
object  for  which  their  journey  has  been  undertaken. 
This  I  have  also  proved  to  be  the  case,  by  having  ob- 
served them,  when  passing  over  a  sterile  part  of  the 
country,  or  one  scantily  furnished  with  food  suited 
to  them,  keep  high  in  the  air,  flying  with  an  extended 

i  Audubon's  narrative  ("Ornithological  Biography,"  vol.  T,  pp.  319- 
324)  is  here  reproduced  with  greater  accuracy  than  the  French 
writer  chose  to  observe.  The  omissions  indicated  occur  in  the 
French,  but  are  not  there  indicated. — Translator. 

141 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

front,  so  as  to  enable  them  to  survey  hundreds  of 
acres  at  once.  On  the  contrary,  when  the  land  is 
richly  covered  with  food,  or  the  trees  abundantly 
hung  with  mast,  they  fly  low,  in  order  to  discover 
the  part  most  plentifully  supplied.  .  .  . 

"  'The  multitudes  of  wild  pigeons  in  our  woods 
are  astonishing.  Indeed,  after  having  viewed  them 
so  often,  and  under  so  many  circumstances,  I  even 
now  feel  inclined  to  pause,  and  assure  myself  that 
what  I  am  going  to  relate  is  fact.  Yet  I  have  seen 
it  all,  and  that  too  in  the  company  of  persons  who, 
like  myself,  were  struck  with  amazement. 

"  'In  the  autumn  of  1813, 1  left  my  house  at  Hen- 
derson, on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  on  my  way  to  Louis- 
ville. In  passing  over  the  Barrens  a  few  miles  be- 
yond Hardensburgh,  I  observed  the  pigeons  flying 
from  northeast  to  southwest,  in  greater  number  than 
I  thought  I  had  ever  seen  them  before,  and  feeling 
an  inclination  to  count  the  flocks  that  might  pass 
within  the  reach  of  my  eye  in  one  hour,  I  dismounted, 
seated  myself  on  an  eminence,  and  began  to  mark 
with  my  pencil,  making  a  dot  for  every  flock  that 
passed.  In  a  short  time  finding  the  task  which  I  had 
undertaken  impracticable,  as  the  birds  poured  in  in 
countless  multitudes,  I  rose,  and  counting  the  dots 
then  put  down,  found  that  one  hundred  and  sixty- 
three  had  been  made  in  twenty-one  minutes.  I  trav- 
eled on,  and  still  met  more  the  farther  I  proceeded. 
The  air  was  literally  filled  with  pigeons ;  the  light  of 
noonday  was  obscured  as  by  an  eclipse ;  the  dung  fell 
in  spots,  not  unlike  melting  flakes  of  snow;  and  the 


A  STORY  FROM  AUDUBON  143 

continued  buzz  of  wings  had  a  tendency  to  lull  my 
senses  to  repose. 

"  l  Whilst  waiting  for  dinner  at  Young's  inn,  at  the 
confluence  of  Salt  Eiver  with  the  Ohio,  I  saw,  at  my 
leisure,  immense  legions  still  going  by,  with  a  front 
reaching  from  beyond  the  Ohio  on  the  west,  and  the 
beech-wood  forests  directly  on  the  east  of  me.  Not  a 
single  bird  alighted,  for  not  a  nut  or  acorn  was  that 
year  to  be  seen  in  the  neighborhood.  They  conse- 
quently flew  so  high,  that  different  trials  to  reach 
them  with  a  capital  rifle  proved  ineffectual ;  nor  did 
the  reports  disturb  them  in  the  least.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe to  you  the  extreme  beauty  of  their  aerial  evo- 
lutions, when  a  hawk  chanced  to  press  upon  the  rear 
of  a  flock.  At  once,  like  a  torrent,  and  with  a  noise 
like  thunder,  they  rushed  into  a  compact  mass,  press- 
ing upon  each  other  toward  the  center.  In  these  al- 
most solid  masses,  they  darted  forward  in  undulating 
and  angular  lines,  descended  and  swept  close  over 
the  earth  with  inconceivable  velocity,  mounted  per- 
pendicularly so  as  to  resemble  a  vast  column,  and, 
when  high,  were  seen  wheeling  and  twisting  within 
their  continued  lines,  which  then  resembled  the  coils 
of  a  gigantic  serpent. 

"  '  Before  sunset  I  reached  Louisville,  distant 
from  Hardensburg  fifty-five  miles.  The  pigeons 
were  still  passing  in  undiminished  numbers,  and  con- 
tinued to  do  so  for  three  days  in  succession.  The 
people  were  all  in  arms.  The  banks  of  the  Ohio 
were  crowded  with  men  and  boys,  incessantly  shoot- 
ing at  the  pilgrims,  which  there  flew  lower  as  they 


144  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

passed  the  river.  Multitudes  were  thus  destroyed. 
For  a  week  or  more,  the  population  fed  on  no  other 
flesh  than  that  of  pigeons,  and  talked  of  nothing  but 
pigeons.  The  atmosphere,  during  this  time,  was 
strongly  impregnated  with  the  peculiar  odor  which 
emanates  from  the  species.  .  .  . 

"  'It  may  not,  perhaps,  be  out  of  place  to  attempt 
an  estimate  of  the  number  of  pigeons  contained  in 
one  of  those  mighty  flocks,  and  of  the  quantity  of 
food  daily  consumed  by  its  members.  .  .  .  Let  us 
take  a  column  of  one  mile  in  breadth,  which  is  far 
below  the  average  size,  and  suppose  it  passing  over 
us  without  interruption  for  three  hours,  at  the  rate 
mentioned  above  of  one  mile  in  the  minute.  This 
will  give  us  a  parallelogram  of  180  miles  by  1,  cov- 
ering 180  square  miles.  Allowing  two  pigeons  to 
the  square  yard,  we  have  1,115,136,000  pigeons  in 
one  flock.  As  every  pigeon  daily  consumes  fully  half 
a  pint  of  food,  the  quantity  necessary  for  supplying 
this  vast  multitude  must  be  8,712,000  bushels  per 
day. 

"  'As  soon  as  the  pigeons  discover  a  sufficiency  of 
food  to  entice  them  to  alight,  they  fly  round  in  circles, 
reviewing  the  country  below.  During  their  evolu- 
tions, on  such  occasions,  the  dense  mass  which  they 
form  exhibits  a  beautiful  appearance,  as  it  changes 
its  direction,  now  displaying  a  glistening  sheet  of 
azure,  when  the  backs  of  the  birds  come  simultane- 
ously into  view,  and  anon  suddenly  presenting  a 
mass  of  rich  deep  purple.  They  then  pass  lower, 
over  the  woods,  and  for  a  moment  are  lost  among  the 


A  STORY  FROM  AUDUBON  145 

foliage,  but  again  emerge,  and  are  seen  gliding  aloft. 
They  now  alight,  but  the  next  moment,  as  if  suddenly 
alarmed,  they  take  to  wing,  producing  by  the  flap- 
pings of  their  wings  a  noise  like  the  roar  of  distant 
thunder,  and  sweep  through  the  forests  to  see  if  dan- 
ger is  near.  Hunger,  however,  soon  brings  them  to 
the  ground.  When  alighted,  they  are  seen  indus- 
triously throwing  up  the  withered  leaves  in  quest  of 
the  fallen  mast.  The  rear  ranks  are  continually 
rising,  passing  over  the  main  body,  and  alighting  in 
front,  in  such  rapid  succession,  that  the  whole  flock 
seems  still  on  wing.  The  quantity  of  ground  thus 
swept  is  astonishing,  and  so  completely  has  it  been 
cleared  that  the  gleaner  who  might  follow  in  their 
rear  would  find  his  labor  completely  lost.  While 
feeding,  their  avidity  is  at  times  so  great  that  in  at- 
tempting to  swallow  a  large  acorn  or  nut,  they  are 
seen  gasping  for  a  long  while,  as  if  in  the  agonies  of 
suffocation. 

"  'On  such  occasions,  when  the  woods  are  filled 
with  these  pigeons,  they  are  killed  in  immense  num- 
bers, although  no  apparent  diminution  ensues.  .  .  . 
As  the  sun  begins  to  sink  beneath  the  horizon,  they 
depart  en  masse  for  the  roosting-place.  .  .  . 

66  'Let  us  now  inspect  their  place  of  nightly  ren- 
dezvous. One  of  these  curious  roosting-places,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Green  Eiver  in  Kentucky,  I  repeat- 
edly visited.  It  was,  as  is  always  the  case,  in  a  por- 
tion of  the  forest  where  the  trees  were  of  great  mag- 
nitude, and  where  there  was  little  underwood.  .  .  . 
My  first  view  of  it  was  about  a  fortnight  subsequent 


146  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

to  the  period  when  they  had  made  choice  of  it,  and  I 
arrived  there  nearly  two  hours  before  sunset.  Few 
pigeons  were  then  to  be  seen,  but  a  great  number  of 
persons,  with  horses  and  wagons,  guns  and  ammu- 
nition, had  already  established  themselves  on  the 
borders.  Two  farmers  from  the  vicinity  of  Russels- 
ville,  distant  more  than  a  hundred  miles,  had  driven 
upwards  of  three  hundred  hogs  to  be  fattened  on  the 
pigeons  which  were  to  be  slaughtered.  Here  and 
there  the  people  employed  in  plucking  and  salting 
what  had  already  been  procured,  were  seen  sitting  in 
the  midst  of  large  piles  of  these  birds.  The  dung  lay 
several  inches  deep,  covering  the  whole  extent  of  the 
roosting-place,  like  a  bed  of  snow.  Many  trees  two 
feet  in  diameter,  I  observed,  were  broken  off  at  no 
great  distance  from  the  ground,  and  the  branches  of 
many  of  the  largest  and  tallest  had  given  way,  as  if 
the  forest  had  been  swept  by  a  tornado.  Everything 
proved  to  me  that  the  number  of  birds  resorting  to 
this  part  of  the  forest  must  be  immense  beyond  con- 
ception. As  the  period  of  their  arrival  approached, 
their  foes  anxiously  prepared  to  receive  them. 
Some  were  furnished  with  iron  pots  containing  sul- 
phur, others  with  torches  of  pine  knots,  many  with 
poles,  and  the  rest  with  guns.  The  sun  was  lost  to 
our  view,  yet  not  a  pigeon  had  arrived.  Everything 
was  ready,  and  all  eyes  were  gazing  on  the  clear  sky, 
which  appeared  in  glimpses  amidst  the  tall  trees. 
Suddenly  there  burst  forth  a  general  cry  of  "Here 
they  come!"  The  noise  which  they  made,  though 
yet  distant,  reminded  me  of  a  hard  gale  at  sea,  pass- 


A  STORY  FROM  AUDUBON  147 

ing  through  the  rigging  of  a  close-reefed  vessel.  As 
the  birds  arrived  and  passed  over  me,  I  felt  a  current 
of  air  that  surprised  me.  Thousands  were  soon 
knocked  down  by  the  pole-men.  The  birds  continue 
to  pour  in.  The  fires  were  lighted,  and  a  magnifi- 
cent, as  well  as  wonderful  and  almost  terrifying, 
sight,  presented  itself.  The  pigeons,  arriving  by 
thousands,  alighted  everywhere,  one  above  another, 
until  solid  masses  as  large  as  hogsheads  were  formed 
on  the  branches  all  round.  Here  and  there  the 
perches  gave  way  under  the  weight  with  a  crash,  and 
falling  to  the  ground,  destroyed  hundreds  of  the 
birds  beneath,  forcing  down  the  dense  groups  with 
which  every  stick  was  loaded.  It  was  a  scene  of  up- 
roar and  confusion.  I  found  it  quite  useless  to 
speak,  or  even  to  shout  to  those  persons  who  were 
nearest  to  me.  Even  the  reports  of  the  guns  were 
seldom  heard,  and  I  was  made  aware  of  the  firing 
only  by  seeing  the  shooters  reloading. 

"  'No  one  dared  venture  within  the  line  of  devas- 
tation. The  hogs  had  been  penned  up  in  due  time, 
the  picking  up  of  the  dead  and  wounded  being  left 
for  the  next  morning's  employment.  The  pigeons 
were  constantly  coming,  and  it  was  past  midnight 
before  I  perceived  a  decrease  in  the  number  of  those 
that  arrived.  The  uproar  continued  the  whole  night. 
.  .  .  Toward  the  approach  of  day,  the  noise  in  some 
measure  subsided,  long  before  objects  were  distin- 
guishable, the  pigeons  began  to  move  off  in  a  direc- 
tion quite  different  from  that  in  which  they  had  ar- 
rived the  evening  before,  and  at  sunrise  all  that  were 


148  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

able  to  fly  had  disappeared.  The  howlings  of  the 
wolves  now  reached  our  ears,  and  the  foxes,  lynxes, 
cougars,  bears,  racoons,  opossums,  and  polecats  were 
seen  sneaking  off,  whilst  eagles  and  hawks  of  differ- 
ent species,  accompanied  by  a  crowd  of  vultures, 
came  to  supplant  them,  and  enjoy  their  share  of  the 
spoil. 

"  'It  was  then  that  the  authors  of  all  this  devasta- 
tion began  their  entry  amongst  the  dead,  the  dying, 
and  the  mangled.  The  pigeons  were  picked  up  and 
piled  in  heaps,  until  each  had  as  many  as  he  could 
possibly  dispose  of,  when  the  hogs  were  let  loose  to 
feed  on  the  remainder.' 

"Here  ends  Audubon's  story.  What  do  you  think 
of  it,  my  friends?" 

"I  think, "  Jules  replied,  "that  those  flocks  of 
pigeons  darkening  the  sky  and  taking  several  days  to 
pass  over  are  the  most  astonishing  thing  I  have  ever 
heard  of  about  birds." 

"And  I,"  said  Emile,  "am  still  thinking  of  that 
shower  of  dung  that  falls  from  the  sky,  as  thick  as 
flakes  of  snow  in  winter,  when  the  pigeons  are  flying 
over.  Everywhere  they  fly  the  ground  is  whitened 
with  this  singular  shower." 

"And  those  trees  breaking  under  the  pigeons' 
weight,"  Louis  exclaimed;  "those  three  hundred 
pigs  let  loose  to  surfeit  on  what  the  hunters  have  left 
— all  that  would  seem  incredible  to  me  if  Uncle  Paul 
had  not  assured  us  it  was  so." 

"It 's  a  great  pity,"  sighed  Emile,  "that  we  have 
no  such  flocks  of  pigeons  here.  If  they  are  knocked 


A  STORY  FROM  AUDUBON  149 

down  with  nothing  but  a  pole,  as  we  knock  down  ap- 
ples and  nuts,  I  would  undertake  to  bag  a  fine  lot  my- 
self. " 

" Would  you  also,"  his  uncle  asked  him,  "under- 
take to  find  food  for  the  pigeons,  when  for  a  single 
day's  supply  for  one  of  their  flocks  it  takes  from 
eight  to  nine  million  bushels  of  seeds  f  You  see  well 
enough  that  such  multitudes  would  be  calamitous: 
the  entire  harvest  of  a  province  would  scarcely  be 
enough  to  fill  the  crops  of  these  ravenous  birds. 
Such  flocks  require  vast  tracts  of  woodland  not  ex- 
ploited by  man,  such  as  America  had  sixty  years 
ago,  in  Audubon's  time.  But  to-day,  in  that  coun- 
try, as  civilization  extends  its  boundaries  the  prime- 
val forests  disappear  and  give  place  to  cultivated 
fields.  Food  becoming  scarce,  pigeons  also  become 
scarce;  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  one  could  ever 
again  witness  such  prodigious  scenes  as  formerly." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  SUPPOSITION 

"T  ET  us  suppose  ourselves,  my  friends,  in  the 
I  J  heart  of  a  desert  country,  left  to  shift  for  our- 
selves, without  any  of  the  resources  that  come  with 
civilization.  To  defend  life  and  procure  food  are 
our  constant  great  care.  Around  us  extend  endless 
dark  woods  where  roar,  howl,  bellow  a  thousand  fe- 
rocious animals  that  would  tear  us  to  pieces  with 
their  claws  or  quarter  us  with  their  horns  if  they  took 
us  by  surprise.  To  shelter  ourselves  from  their  at- 
tack, we  have  to  choose  between  the  refuge  of  a 
grotto,  the  mouth  of  which  we  close  with  fragments 
of  rock  rolled  painfully  into  place,  and  the  hollow 
trunk  of  an  old  tree,  or,  better,  its  large  branches,  if 
we  can  manage  to  climb  up  to  them. ' ' 

"It  is  the  story  of  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  Island, " 
Emile  interrupted. 

'  '  Not  quite.  I  am  supposing  our  state  much  worse 
than  his.  Robinson  Crusoe  had  at  his  disposal  a 
quantity  of  things  saved  from  the  shipwreck — tools 
of  all  kinds,  formidable  weapons,  guns,  powder,  and 
shot.  We  have  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  but  our 
ten  fingers. ' ' 

"Not  even  a  knife  to  cut  a  stick  with?"  asked 
Emile. 

150 


A  SUPPOSITION  151 

"Not  even  a  knife." 

"Bather  an  unpleasant  situation, "  remarked 
Louis ;  "and  all  the  more  so  as  we  could  n't  stay  shut 
up  all  the  time.  We  should  have  to  leave  our  grotto 
to  procure  food,  and  then  beware  of  the  wolves  and 
all  the  dangerous  creatures  in  the  wood. ' ' 

"Nothing  imparts  courage  like  the  terrible  need 
of  food.  We  should  start  out,  then,  armed  with  some 
stones  and  with  a  stick  clumsily  broken  off  with  our 
hands.  If  the  wild  beast  runs  at  us  we  shall  do  our 
best  to  knock  it  down." 

"But  what  if  we  don't  succeed ?"  was  Emile's 
query. 

"In  that  case  we  are  done  for:  we  shall  become  its 
prey." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  Uncle,  in  spite  of  the  pleasure 
the  reading  of  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  Island  gave 
me,  I  prefer  this  trip  through  the  woods  to  be  sim- 
ply a  supposition  on  your  part  rather  than  a  reality. ' ' 

"Emile  is  not  the  only  one  of  that  opinion,"  de- 
clared Jules.  "When  I  have  nothing  to  defend  my- 
self with  I  don't  like  those  woods  where  there  are 
wolves  and  still  worse  things. ' ' 

"I  continue  my  supposition.  Hunger  drives  us 
and  we  start.  I  assume  that  heaven  favors  us  and 
that  no  serious  danger  comes  to  disturb  us  in  our 
hunt  for  something  to  keep  us  from  starving.  If 
we  are  on  the  seashore  we  shall  catch  shell-fish;  if 
inland,  we  shall  gather  berries  from  the  brambles 
and  sloes  from  the  thicket.  If  we  hunt  long  enough 
we  may  perhaps  find  a  handful  or  two  of  hazel-nuts. 


152  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

That  will  be  our  dinner,  which  will  beguile  our  hun- 
ger for  a  while  without  satisfying  it. ' ' 

"I  should  think  so,"  exclaimed  Emile.  "Ber- 
ries and  sloes,  and  nothing  else — a  sorry  feast! 
I  'd  rather  have  a  crust  of  bread,  no  matter  how 
hard." 

"So  had  I.  But  the  crust  of  bread  means  culti- 
vated fields,  the  husbandman,  the  harvester,  the 
miller,  and  the  baker;  it  presupposes  an  advanced 
civilization,  whereas  we  are  in  a  wilderness.  We 
must  do  without  the  crust  of  bread.  If,  however, 
you  find  something  better  than  berries  and  sloes,  I 
will  gladly  give  up  the  detestable  fruit. ' ' 

"Since  the  woods  where  you  suppose  us  to  be," 
said  Jules,  "are  full  of  all  sorts  of  animals,  there 
ought  to  be  game  in  abundance. ' ' 

6  '  Yes,  indeed,  game  is  there  in  plenty. ' ' 

"Well,  then;  let  us  hunt  it,  and  then  we  will  light 
a  fire  and  I  will  see  to  roasting  what  we  have  got. 
That  will  be  much  better  than  horrid  sloes,  sour 
enough  to  set  your  teeth  on  edge. ' ' 

"That  is  a  good  idea,  but  I  see  two  great  diffi- 
culties :  first,  we  must  catch  the  game ;  secondly,  we 
must  make  a  fire." 

"Making  a  fire  is  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world," 
Emile  declared.  ' '  All  we  need  is  a  match,  as  long  as 
there  is  plenty  of  wood. ' ' 

"You  forget,  my  friend,  that  there  are  no  matches. 
We  have  nothing,  absolutely  nothing. ' ' 

"That  is  true.  What  shall  we  do,  then?  If  I  re- 
member right,  Eobinson  Crusoe  too  had  no  end  of 


A  SUPPOSITION  153 

trouble  in  making  a  fire.  He  finally  found  a  tree 
that  had  been  set  on  fire  by  lightning. ' ' 

"  Would  you  wait  for  a  thunderstorm  to  come  and 
set  fire  to  a  corner  of  the  forest?  Long  before  that 
we  should  have  time  to  starve,  for  it  is  very  seldom 
that  lightning  starts  a  fire. ' ' 

"Must  we,  then,  give  up  the  roast  that  I  was  pro- 
posing!" Jules  asked. 

"Before  giving  it  up  we  might  try  the  means  em- 
ployed by  certain  savage  tribes  for  obtaining  fire. 
The  operator  takes  his  seat  on  the  ground  and  holds 
between  his  feet  a  piece  of  soft  and  very  dry  wood 
in  which  a  small  cavity  has  been  hollowed;  then  he 
twirls  rapidly  between  his  hands  a  stick  of  hard  wood 
with  its  point  in  the  cavity.  As  a  result  of  this  en- 
ergetic friction  the  soft  wood  becomes  heated  at  the 
bottom  of  the  hollow,  and  ends  by  catching  fire.  Suc- 
cess necessitates,  it  is  true,  a  rapidity  of  friction  and 
a  skill  that  certainly  we  should  not  be  able  to  acquire 
without  a  long  apprenticeship ;  but  I  pass  over  that 
difficulty  and  assume  that  we  have  a  fire. 

6 '  Now  for  the  game.  A  hare  will  be  a  great  plenty 
for  us.  This  animal  abounds,  and  we  should  be  very 
unskilful  if  we  did  not  soon  find  one  curling  its  mus- 
taches with  its  velvety  paw  under  a  tuft  of  broom. 
But  the  hare  has  quick  ears  and  sharp  eyes.  Long 
before  we  can  get  within  striking  distance  it  hears 
and  sees  us,  and  decamps.  Eun  after  it  now  if  you 
think  you  can  catch  it." 

"For  my  part,"  said  Jules,  "I  won't  undertake 
it." 


154  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"With  the  weapons  we  possess, "  Louis  admitted, 
"with  only  our  sticks  and  stones,  the  chase  seems  to 
me  out  of  the  question:  all  game  of  whatever  sort 
would  foil  our  attempts  by  its  vigilance  and  rapid 
flight." 

"Are  you  all  thoroughly  convinced  of  it?"  asked 
Uncle  Paul. 

* '  I  certainly  am, ' '  replied  Jules.  * '  Not  being  able 
to  match  the  game  in  fleetness  of  foot,  we  shall  al- 
ways come  back  from  the  hunt  empty-handed. ' ' 

"That's  plain  enough, "  Emile  assented. 

' l  Then  let  us  be  content  with  sloes,  and  if  hunger 
presses  too  hard  we  must  tighten  our  belts.  Since, 
too,  at  any  moment,  some  furious  wild  beast  might 
pounce  upon  us  and  devour  us,  let  us  lose  no  time  in 
getting  back  to  reflect  on  our  sad  plight. 

'  '  Our  wretched  state  is  indeed  lamentable.  Inces- 
sant hunger  torments  us,  despite  the  extreme  abun- 
dance of  game,  which  would  be  an  invaluable  resource 
for  us,  but  which  unfortunately  we  cannot  turn  to  ac- 
count. If,  to  stay  our  hunger,  we  go  in  search  of 
wild  fruit,  a  thousand  dangers  await  us.  We  may 
fall  into  clutches  that  no  stone  will  intimidate  and  no 
sticks  cause  to  relax.  We  are  without  provisions, 
defenseless.  A  terrible  alternative  awaits  us:  to 
die  of  hunger  or  be  devoured  by  those  that  are 
stronger  than  we." 

"Such  a  Robinson  Crusoe  life  I  should  not  care 
for,"  declared  Emile. 

"Now  let  us  suppose  one  thing  more :  Heaven  takes 
pity  on  our  distress  and,  to  extricate  us  from  our  dif- 


A  SUPPOSITION  155 

ficulty,  offers  us  the  aid  of  one  of  our  domestic  ani- 
mals, whichever  one  we  choose  to  name.  Which  will 
you  ask  for,  children!" 

"My  stomach  is  so  tired  of  sloes,"  Emile  replied, 
"and  my  teeth  are  so  set  on  edge  with  this  sour  fruit 
that  I  think  I  should  choose  a  sheep.  Some  cutlets 
broiled  over  live  coals  would  make  up  to  me  for  my 
dinners  on  wild  berries." 

"But  the  sheep  will  soon  be  eaten  up,"  objected 
Jules, ' i  and  then  back  you  go  once  more  to  the  sloes. 
I  should  prefer  a  goat.  Every  evening  it  would 
come  back  to  the  grotto  with  its  big  udders  swollen 
with  milk.  In  this  way  I  should  be  sure  of  food  with 
some  variety,  because  I  could  make  butter  and  cheese 
out  of  the  milk." 

"Your  goat  will  perhaps  not  last  so  long  as 
Emile 's  sheep.  It  must  go  out  to  get  pasturage,  and 
who  can  say  that  it  will  not  be  devoured  by  wolves 
in  the  woods  the  first  time  it  ventures  forth?" 

' '  I  will  keep  careful  watch  over  it. ' ' 

"But  who  will  watch  over  you,  my  friend?  Who 
will  protect  you  ?  ' ' 

"That  's  so.  Let  us  give  up  the  goat  and  choose 
a  cow.  She  is  strong  enough  to  defend  herself  with 
her  horns." 

"If  one  wolf  is  not  enough,  they  will  bring  to  the 
attack  two,  three,  ten,  and  the  cow  will  be  overcome." 

1 1  The  horse,  mule,  or  donkey,  in  our  supposed  cir- 
cumstances, cannot  be  very  useful  to  us.  I  leave 
them  out.  With  a  hen  I  should  at  least  have  an  egg 
a  day." 


156  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"A. poor  dependence  if  one  lien's  egg  has  to  be  di- 
vided between  four.  Besides,  what  grain  have  you 
for  feeding  your  hen?  And  how  about  the  fox — will 
he  leave  her  in  peace  ?" 

"The  pig  is  still  left,"  was  Jules 's  final  sugges- 
tion. "But  there  we  have  the  same  difficulty  as  with 
Emile  's  sheep :  once  the  animal  is  eaten,  hunger  over- 
takes us  again.  I  leave  the  choice  to  some  one  clev- 
erer than  I. ' ' 

"My  choice,"  said  Louis,  "would  be  the  dog,  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation." 

"What  a  queer  choice!"  cried  Emile.  "The  dog 
will  lick  our  hands  in  sign  of  friendship,  he  will  bark 
in  front  of  the  grotto,  and  he  will  gnaw  the  bone  we 
throw  to  him.  But  as  there  are  no  bones  in  our  din- 
ners of  sloes,  the  poor  beast  will  die  of  hunger  with- 
out being  of  any  use  to  us  whatever. ' ' 

"I  can  find  use  for  him,"  replied  Louis,  "and  it  is 
a  great  one.  With  the  dog,  game,  even  the  nimblest 
hare,  will  be  caught  in  the  chase,  with  such  ambus- 
cade as  we  can  contrive  on  our  part,  and  food  will 
be  assured  for  all — flesh  for  us,  bones  for  the  dog. 
Accompanied  by  him,  we  can  go  wherever  we  please, 
without  the  continual  fear  of  being  attacked  any  mo- 
ment. If  a  wolf  appears,  our  vigorous  companion 
will  cope  with  it,  seize  it  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and 
give  us  a  chance  to  lay  on  with  the  cudgel. ' ' 

"Louis  is  right,"  declared  Jules;  "I  vote  for  the 
dog." 

"The  reasons  Louis  gives,"  Emile  chimed  in,  "are 


A  SUPPOSITION  157 

too  clear  to  admit  of  any  but  a  unanimous  vote  in  the 
dog's  favor." 

"Yes,  my  friend,"  his  uncle  rejoined,  "unani- 
mous, even  to  the  vote  of  your  Uncle  Paul,  who  for 
some  moments  has  been  making  you  live  Robinson 
Crusoe's  life  in  imagination  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  leading  you  to  decide  for  yourselves  in  favor 
of  the  dog. 

"In  the  early  days,  centuries  and  centuries  ago, 
man  lived  mostly  by  the  chase,  as  to-day  the  last  sur- 
viving savage  tribes  still  live.  The  raising  of  herds, 
the  tilling  of  the  soil,  the  manufacture  of  goods,  all 
were  unknown.  Wild  animals,  hunted  in  the  forests 
with  stone  weapons  and  pointed  sticks,  furnished  al- 
most the  only  resource.  Their  flesh  gave  food,  their 
skins  provided  clothing.  To  catch  the  game,  a  fleet- 
footed  auxiliary  in  the  chase  was  necessary ;  to  keep 
these  dangerous  animals  in  a  proper  state  of  awe,  a 
courageous  defender  was  needed  by  man.  This  aux- 
iliary, this  defender,  and,  best  of  all,  this  friend, 
devoted  even  to  death,  was  the  dog;  a  gift  from 
Heaven  to  help  man  in  his  pitiful  beginnings.  With 
the  aid  of  the  dog,  life  was  rendered  less  perilous, 
food  more  assured.  Leisure  followed,  and  from  be- 
ing a  hunter  man  became  a  herdsman.  The  herd  was 
formed,  at  first  very  indocile  and  at  the  slightest  lack 
of  watchfulness  taking  again  to  the  wild  life  of  old. 
Its  keeping  was  confided  to  the  dog,  which,  posted  on 
some  rising  ground  of  the  pasture,  its  scent  to  the 
wind  and  ear  on  the  watch,  followed  the  herd  with 


158  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

vigilant  eye  and  rushed  to  bring  back  the  runaways 
or  to  drive  off  some  evil-intentioned  beast.  Thanks 
to  the  dog,  the  herd  gave  abundance — milk  and  its 
products,  flesh  for  food,  and  warm  wool  for  clothing. 
Then,  relieved  from  the  terrible  anxiety  concerning 
daily  provision,  man  took  it  into  his  head  to  dig  in 
the  earth  and  make  it  produce  grain.  Agriculture 
sprang  into  being,  and  with  it,  little  by  little,  civili- 
zation. By  the  very  force  of  circumstances,  there- 
fore, man  in  all  countries  is  at  first  a  hunter,  later  he 
becomes  a  herdsman,  and  ends  by  being  an  agricul- 
turist. The  dog  is  absolutely  necessary  to  him,  first 
for  hunting,  then  for  watching  and  defending  the 
herd.  Of  all  our  domestic  animals,  accordingly,  the 
dog  is  the  earliest  on  record  and  the  one  that  has  ren- 
dered us  the  greatest  service. " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

A  FRAGMENT   OF   HISTORY 

"  T  UNDERSTAND,"  began  Jules,  "the  usefulness 
JL  of  the  dog  to  a  man  left  to  his  own  resources  in 
a  desert  country  in  the  midst  of  woods.  With  the 
help  of  this  courageous  friend  he  procures  food  and 
defends  himself  against  animals  that  endanger  his 
life.  But  in  our  countries  around  here,  it  seems  to 
me,  that  wretched  sort  of  existence  can  never  have 
been  known." 

"In  our  countries  things  took  their  course  just  as 
everywhere  else,"  his  uncle  replied.  "Even  in 
places  now  enjoying  the  most  advanced  civilization, 
man  began  with  an  era  of  misery  of  which  it  will  be 
not  unprofitable  to  give  you  some  idea ;  then  you  will 
see  better  from  what  depths  of  barbarism  the  dog's 
services  have  helped  to  raise  us. 

"In  the  earliest  times  of  which  history  has  pre- 
served some  vague  record,  what  was  one  day  to  be 
the  beautiful  country  of  France  was  a  wild  country 
covered  with  immense  forests,  where,  living  by  the 
chase,  there  wandered  some  few  tribes  of  Gaels ;  for 
thus  the  first  inhabitants  of  our  country  were  called. 
They  were  men  of  low  stature,  broad  shoulders, 
white  skin,  long  blond  hair,  and  blue  or  green  eyes. 
For  weapons  they  had  stone  axes  and  knives,  arrows 

159 


160  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

tipped  with  fish-bones  or  a  sharp  piece  of  flint.  Fas- 
tened to  the  left  arm,  they  carried  for  defense  a  long 
and  narrow  wooden  shield ;  with  the  right  hand  they 
brandished,  as  an  offensive  weapon,  sometimes  a 
stake  hardened  in  the  fire,  sometimes  a  heavy  bludg- 
eon or  club.  For  the  perilous  passage  of  rivers  and 
of  ocean  inlets  they  had  fragile  little  boats  made  of 
wicker,  plaited  as  in  our  baskets,  but  covered  on  the 
outside  with  the  hide  of  a  wild  ox  to  exclude  the 
water. " 

"But  those  are  the  weapons  and  boats  of  sav- 
ages!" interposed  Emile. 

"Without  doubt,  my  friend;  and,  equally  with- 
out doubt,  the  first  Gaels,  ancestors  of  ours  though 
they  were,  were  veritable  savages,  differing  hardly 
at  all  from  those  of  our  own  day.  They  lived  mainly 
by  the  chase,  herds  and  agriculture  being  for  ages 

unknown  to  them. 
In  their  gloomy 
forests,  damp  and 
cold,  using  only 
their  poor  weap- 
ons of  stone  and 
pointed  sticks, 
they  attacked  a 
Aurochs  terrible  wild  ox, 

the  aurochs  or  urus,  which  is  now  almost  extinct. 
This  ox,  nearly  as  large  as  the  elephant,  had  enor- 
mous horns,  a  mane  of  curly  wool  on  its  head  and 
neck,  beard  under  its  throat,  a  deep,  hoarse  bellow, 
and  a  ferocious  look.  Its  extraordinary  strength 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  161 

and  indomitable  fury  made  it  the  terror  of  the 
forests. " 

"And  weren't  they  afraid,"  asked  Louis,  "to  at- 
tack this  fearful  creature  with  their  stone  hatchets  1 J ' 

"They  fell  upon  the  furious  animal  without  other 
weapons  than  pointed  stakes  and  stone  hatchets ;  but 
they  had  the  help  of  powerful  dogs  that  seized  the 
beast  by  the  ears  and  got  the  mastery  of  it.  The 
urus  held  the  place  of  honor  among  game.  The  val- 
iant huntsman  who  killed  it  had  for  a  cup,  at  the 
banqueting  board,  one  of  the  animaPs  monstrous 
horns. " 

"What  did  they  drink  from  those  horns?"  Emile 
inquired. 

"At  first  clear  water  from  the  fountains;  then, 
after  the  race  had  made  some  little  progress,  an  in- 
toxicating drink  called  cervisia,  made  from  fer- 
mented barley.  That  was  the  forerunner  of  our 
beer." 

"Can  it  be,"  asked  Louis,  "that  our  peaceful  ox 
came  from  that  intractable  beast,  the  urus,  as  you 
call  it?" 

"Not  at  all.  The  domestic  ox  is  a  different  kind 
altogether,  originating  in  Asia  and  not  in  the  an- 
cient forests  of  Europe.  In  our  day  there  is  hardly 
a  urus  left.  Hunted  century  after  century  by  grow- 
ing civilization,  the  formidable  ox  with  a  mane  has 
long  since  deserted  these  regions  to  take  refuge  in 
the  solitudes  of  the  North.  But  these  solitudes  in 
turn  have  been  taken  possession  of  by  man,  and  the 
aurochs  has  found  its  last  retreat  in  the  swampy 


162  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

forests  of  Lithuania  in  Poland.  There  a  few  pairs 
still  live  in  perfect  security,  for  it  is  expressly  for- 
bidden to  kill  them." 

"And  why  do  they  keep  those  ugly  oxen?"  was 
Emile  's  next  question. 

"They  are  not  numerous  enough  to  do  any  harm, 
and  it  would  really  be  a  pity  to  exterminate  the  last 
one  of  these  animals  that  afforded  our  ancestors  such 
joy  in  the  hunt. 

"The  Gaels  hunted  the  elk  also,  a  kind  of  large 
stag  the  size  of  a  horse  or  even  larger.  The  elk  has 
under  its  throat  a  kind  of  goiter  or  fleshy  pendant; 
its  fur  is  short,  stiff,  and  ash-colored;  its  horns, 
called  antlers,  are  wide-spreading  and  flattened,  and 
they  extend  in  a  vast  triangular  expanse  with  a 
deeply  indented  outline;  the  weight  of  each  antler 
may  amount  to  as  much  as  thirty  kilograms.  That 
must,  as  you  see,  be  a  fine  specimen  of  game :  an  ani- 
mal that  bears  on  its  forehead,  without  effort,  an 
ornament  weighing  a  hundred  weight  and  more." 

"A  stag  as  large  as  a  horse  must  really  be  a  noble 
prize  for  a  hunter,"  said  Louis. 

"Without  his  companion,  the  dog,"  Jules  put  in, 
"man  certainly  could  not  have  caught  such  an  animal 
in  the  chase." 

"The  elk,"  resumed  Uncle  Paul,  "though  common 
at  that  period  in  our  forests,  is  found  to-day  only  in 
the  wooded  marshes  of  Eussia  and  Sweden.  It  also 
inhabits,  and  in  greater  numbers,  the  northern  part 
of  America. 

"You  will  notice  that  these  two  animals,  the  an- 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  163 

rochs  and  the  elk,  which  were  formerly  spread  over 
our  own  regions,  are  now  settled  in  climates  much 
colder  than  ours.  The  few  aurochs  that  have  sur- 
vived the  general  destruction  of  their  species  graze 
in  the  woods  of  Lithuania;  the  elk  inhabits  the  ex- 
treme north  of  Europe  and  America.  Transported 
to  our  warmer  climate,  they  would  soon  perish,  being 
unable  to  endure  a  temperature  too  high  for  them. 
Since  they  flourished  here  in  ancient  times,  the  cli- 
mate of  our  regions  must  at  that  distant  epoch  have 
been  colder,  more  severe,  than  it  is  to-day.  Immense 
forests,  always  damp  and  full  of  shade,  were  doubt- 
less one  of  the  causes  of  this  more  rigorous  climate. 
When  these  woods,  impenetrable  to  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  were  felled  by  the  ax  of  nascent  civilization,  the 
soil  warmed  up  freely  and  the  temperature  rose. 
But  then  the  aurochs  and  elk,  harassed  besides  by 
man,  who  explored  all  their  retreats,  fled  a  country 
too  warm  for  them  and  took  refuge  in  the  cold  fogs  of 
the  North. 

"  Despite  this  change  of  climate  some  animals  have 
remained  with  us  the  same  as  in  the  old  time  of  the 
Gaels.  In  our  day  the  same  wolf  still  howls  with 
hunger  in  the  woods,  the  same  bears  haunt  the 
mountain  caves,  the  same  wild  boar,  beset  by  a  pack 
of  hounds  in  some  bushy  thicket,  pokes  its  bristly 
snout  out  of  the  brake,  sharpens  its  tusks,  and 
gnashes  its  teeth  as  formerly  when  a  band  of  tattooed 
hunters  flung  their  stone  hatchets  at  its  head." 

"  Those  first  inhabitants  of  France  were  tattooed 
like  island  savages  1"  asked  Jules. 


164  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Yes,  my  friend.  They  decorated  their  bodies 
with  designs  in  blue,  a  pigment  extracted  from  a 
plant  called  woad;  and  to  make  the  decoration  in- 
effaceable they  forced  the  coloring  matter  into  the 
skin  by  pricking  themselves  till  the  blood  flowed. 

"This  practice,  called  tattooing,  is  still  found  in 
our  day  in  many  countries,  among  tribes  unac- 
quainted with  the  benefits  of  civilization.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  world,  at  our  antipodes,  the  natives 
of  New  Zealand  are  most  expert  in  this  kind  of  deco- 
ration. With  a,  sharp  awl,  impregnated  with  divers 
colors,  they  prick  themselves  with  little  stabs  and 
trace,  point  by  point,  fanciful  designs  which  turn 
their  skin  into  veritable  living  embroidery.  Red  and 
blue  spirals  turn  in  inverse  directions  from  both 
sides  of  the  forehead  and  continue  in  rose-work  on 
the  cheeks.  Little  palm-leaves  spread  over  the  nos- 
trils ;  a  sun  darts  its  rays  all  around  the  chin ;  two  or 
three  little  stars  give  a  blue  tinge  to  the  lower  lip. 
The  rest  of  the  body  is  ornamented  in  the  same  lavish 
manner:  fantastic  animals  cover  the  middle  of  the 
back;  a  tortoise  pokes  out  its  head  and  four  feet  in 
the  hollow  of  the  breast;  the  hands  and  feet,  pricked 
in  fine  tracery  patterns,  look  as  if  covered  with  open- 
work gloves  and  stockings.  Our  ancestors  of  the 
stone-hatchet  age  decorated  themselves  very  much 
like  this." 

"Those  poor  New  Zealanders,"  remarked  Emile, 
"must  hurt  themselves  dreadfully,  disfiguring  them- 
selves like  that." 
"The  operation  is  indeed  most  painful,  and  yet 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  165 

they  bear  it  without  a  murmur.  A  single  needle- 
prick  makes  us  recoil ;  those  rude  savages  remain  un- 
moved while  the  tattoo  artist  punctures  their  bodies 
with  his  awl." 

"Why  do  they  submit  to  such  a  torture ?" 

"Chiefly  that  they  may  cut  a  more  dashing  figure, 
present  a  more  formidable  aspect,  before  the  enemy. 
In  certain  archipelagoes  of  Polynesia  we  should  find 
still  stranger  customs.  One  tribe,  for  example, 
gashes  the  face  by  removing  narrow  strips  of  skin 
so  that  the  cicatrized  wounds  form  various  patterns 
in  hideous  little  red  weals.  Others  pass  a  small 
pointed  stick  through  the  cartilage  of  the  nostrils; 
others  make  a  large  hole  in  the  lower  lip  and  set  a 
shell  in  it. 

"Had  the  ancient  Gaels  similar  customs?  It  is 
quite  possible;  at  least  it  is  certain  that  they  tat- 
tooed themselves  with  woad.  Certain  customs  are 
sometimes  so  tenacious  that  after  many  centuries  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  flourishing  civilization  tattoo- 
ing has  not  entirely  disappeared  even  with  us.  On 
the  strong  arms  of  some  of  our  laborers  are  seen, 
any  day,  tattooed  in  blue,  trade  emblems  and  other 
devices.  They  are,  without  doubt,  the  survivals  of 
primitive  customs. 

"The  Gaels  had  long,  silky  hair,  like  flaxen  tow, 
and  they  gave  it  a  tinge  of  bright  red  by  frequent 
washing  in  lime  lye.  Sometimes  they  smeared  it 
with  rancid  grease  and  let  it  hang  down  over  their 
shoulders  in  all  its  length;  sometimes  they  gathered 
it  above  the  forehead  in  a  high  tuft  or  mane,  to  make 


166  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

themselves  look  taller  and  to  give  themselves  a  more 
terrifying  aspect. " 

"In  a  book  of  travels,"  said  Jules,  "I  saw  pic- 
tures of  some  North  American  Indians  with  a  tuft 
of  hair  like  that  on  top  of  the  head.  The  Gaels,  then, 
had  the  same  custom?" 

"  Yes,  my  child.  Thousands  of  years  apart,  in  the 
forests  of  the  Old  World  and  those  of  the  New,  the 
Gael  and  the  Indian  adopt  the  same  head-dress,  a 
coil  of  hair  over  the  forehead.  When  he  dresses  for 
the  combat,  the  Indian  fastens  to  his  top-knot  of 
hair  divers  ornaments,  such  as  the  wing  of  a  hawk, 
the  claw  of  a  leopard,  the  teeth  of  a  bear.  Thus 
doubtless  the  Gael  likewise  adorned  his  person  when 
he  made  himself  fine  for  the  urus-hunt  or  for  battle 
with  some  neighboring  tribe. 

"The  Indian's  top-knot  is  an  audacious  defiance, 
a  horrible  bravado.  When  the  enemy  is  thrown  to 
the  ground,  beaten  down  by  a  blow  of  the  club,  the 
conqueror  seizes  him  by  his  top-knot,  cuts  the  skin 
all  round  the  head  with  the  point  of  a  sharp  flint, 
then  with  a  jerk  pulls  off  the  bleeding  scalp  all  in 
one  piece. ' ' 

4 'Oh,  how  horrible!"  cried  Jules. 

"This  scalp  is  a  trophy  which  he  will  dry  in  the 
smoke  of  his  hut  and  will  wear  hanging  from  his 
waist  as  token  of  his  exploit.  His  position  in  the 
tribe,  his  weight  in  the  council,  are  proportioned  to 
the  number  of  scalps  taken  from  the  enemy.  Now 
you  understand  the  fierce  bravado  of  the  Indian 
with  his  top-knot  of  hair  all  gathered  up  and  ready 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  167 

for  the  horrible  operation.  Let  any  one  offer  to 
touch  it,  and  he  will  soon  feel  the  weight  of  the 
wearer 's  club." 

"I  hope  the  Gaels  did  not  have  that  abominable 
custom." 

"They  had  one  that  was  worse:  they  carried  not 
only  the  scalp,  but  the  whole  head,  which  they  dried 
in  the  sun,  after  nailing  it  by  the  ears  to  the  entrance 
of  the  hut  in  the  midst  of  hunting  trophies,  boars' 
heads  and  wolves'  heads.  Those  were  their  titles  of 
nobility." 

"And  we  are  descended  from  those  frightful  sav- 
ages?" 

6 '  The  tattooed  Gaels  with  red  hair,  nailing  the  en- 
emy's  head  to  their  door,  are,  as  far  back  as  history 
can  show,  the  first  inhabitants  of  our  country;  we 
count  them  as  among  our  earliest  ancestors.  Some 
of  their  barbarous  customs  have  come  down  to  us, 
greatly  modified,  it  is  true.  I  have  just  given  you  an 
example,  in  tattooing;  I  give  you  another  in  the  mat- 
ter of  trophies  of  the  chase.  After  the  manner  of 
the  ancient  Gaels,  it  is  still  the  custom  in  the  country 
to  nail  to  the  big  barn-doors  wolves'  and  foxes'  heads 
and  the  dead  bodies  of  hawks  and  owls." 

"Those  who  do  that,"  said  Louis,  "little  suspect 
to  what  horrible  custom  their  practice  is  related. ' ' 

"Your  tattooed  hunters  interest  me  very  much," 
Emile  declared.  "Their  houses,  dress,  furniture — 
how  about  all  those  things?" 

"In  those  wretched  times  a  shelter  under  rocks,  a 
natural  excavation,  a  grotto,  were  the  first  dwelling- 


168  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

places.  But  there  came  a  day  when  those  wild  re- 
treats were  found  insufficient,  and  human  ingenuity 
made  its  first  attempts  in  the  art  of  building.  To 
provide  oneself  with  a  shelter  was  not  enough;  it 
was  necessary  above  all  to  maintain  an  unremitting 
state  of  defense.  The  forests  were  overrun  with  for- 
midable animals,  and  there  was  perpetual  warfare 
between  neighboring  tribes.  As  a  safeguard  against 
surprise,  wherever  there  were  lakes,  the  houses 
were  built  on  piling  in  the  middle  of  the  water. 

"It  must  have  taken  a  prodigious  expenditure  of 
energy  for  man,  as  yet  so  poorly  provided  with  tools, 
to  build  these  lake  villages,  or  lacustrine  villages,  as 
they  are  called.  With  a  stone  ax  the  tree  that  was 
to  be  felled  was  laboriously  girdled  at  the  base,  and 
then  the  application  of  fire  completed  the  process. 
Whole  days  and  perhaps  the  united  efforts  of  a  num- 
ber of  workers  were  necessary  to  obtain  one  joist 
such  as  a  wood-cutter  would  now  turn  out  with  a 
few  strokes  of  his  steel  ax.  But  with  their  tools  of 
flint,  hardly  hitting  the  wood  and  falling  to  pieces 
with  the  slightest  maladroit  blow,  it  was  an  enormous 
undertaking  for  them.  They  were  in  about  the  same 
plight  that  our  carpenters  would  be  in  if  the  latter 
were  obliged  to  cut  down  and  trim  an  oak  with  noth- 
ing but  an  old  rusty  knife.  I  leave  you  to  imagine, 
then,  the  labor  and  patience  expended  in  obtaining 
the  thousands  of  joists  needed  in  this  piling.  Ap- 
parently each  head  of  a  family  furnished  one  as  his 
share,  which  gave  him  the  right  to  erect  his  hut  on 
the  common  building-lot.  At  a  later  period,  per- 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  169 

haps,  in  order  to  extend  the  area  of  the  straggling 
village  as  the  population  increased,  the  furnishing  of 
a  new  pile  was  required  of  each  adult  male  inhabit- 
ant. It  was  the  extraordinary  contribution,  the  sa- 
cred debt,  that  he  was  obliged  to  pay  once  in  his  life- 
time. 

"The  piles,  pointed  and  hardened  in  the  fire  at  one 
end,  were  dragged  to  the  edge  of  the  lake,  where 
canoes  of  plaited  wicker  towed  them  to  the  chosen 
spot.  There  they  were  stood  on  end  and  driven  into 
the  soft  mud  until  the  tops  were  on  a  level  with  the 
water.  Finally  the  spaces  between  the  multitude  of 
piles  were  filled  with  stones.  The  whole  formed  an 
artificial  islet  of  great  solidity,  or  rather  a  shoal  sub- 
merged and  covered  with  several  feet  of  water.  On 
the  tops  of  the  piles,  just  above  the  general  level, 
cross-beams  were  laid,  then  boughs  of  trees,  and  on 
top  of  these  beaten  earth.  Finally,  on  this  artificial 
soil,  beneath  which  circulated  the  waters  of  the  lake, 
dwellings  were  erected. 

"They  were  round  or  oval  huts,  made  of  a  frame- 
work of  interlacing  branches  and  a  layer  of  rich 
earth.  A  single  opening,  very  low,  through  which 
one  had  to  crawl,  gave  access  to  an  interior,  not  un- 
like our  baker 's  oven. 

"The  furnishing  corresponded  with  the  rudeness 
of  the  dwelling.  Big  tun-bellied  pots  of  black  clay 
variegated  with  grains  of  white  sand  held  the 
provisions,  which  consisted  of  aurochs-flesh  dried 
in  the  sun,  beech-nuts,  and  hazel-nuts.  These  pots 
were  rudely  made  by  hand  without  any  potter's 


170  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

wheel  to  give  them  a  regular  outline.  Thick,  mis- 
shapen, unsteady,  they  had  an  uneven  surface  and 
bore  the  finger-marks  of  those  who  had  molded  them. 
Some  attempts  at  ornamentation  appeared  on  the 
best  jars,  and  took  the  form  of  a  row  of  imprints 
made  with  the  end  of  the  thumb  on  the  still  soft  clay, 
or  a  line  of  angular  marks  engraved  with  a  thorn. 
The  rest  of  the  work  was  not  less  simple.  To  give 
our  pottery,  however  slight  its  value,  more  consist- 
ency and  hardness,  we  bake  it  in  a  very  hot  oven ;  we 
also  coat  it  with  a  glaze  to  make  it  impermeable. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  lake  villages  were  content  to 
expose  their  pu  s  of  wet  clay  to  the  rays  of  the  sun 
until  dry,  without  baking  or  glazing.  Hence  it  was 
a  sorry  kind  of  pottery,  good  for  the  keeping  of  pro- 
visions, but  incapable  of  holding  water  or  of  being 
used  over  the  fire." 

"How  did  they  manage,  then,"  asked  Jules,  "to 
get  hot  water  and  cook  their  food!" 

"When  one  is  unprovided  with  the  invaluable 
saucepan,  when  one  is  without  even  those  homely 
utensils  that  we  think  so  little  of,  despite  the  ines- 
timable service  they  render  us,  one  imitates  the  Es- 
kimos of  Greenland,  who  cook  their  viands  in  a  little 
skin  bag. ' ' 

"But  that  queer  kind  of  pot  would  burn  on  the 
fire,"  asserted  Emile. 

"They  are  very  careful  not  to  put  it  on  the  fire. 
Stones  are  heated  red-hot  in  the  fire,  and  after  they 
are  thus  heated  they  are  popped  into  the  little  bag 
containing  water  and  food  to  be  cooked.  After  cool- 


A  FRAGMENT  OF  HISTORY  171 

ing  off  they  are  taken  out  to  be  reheated  and  dropped 
once  more  into  the  water,  which  finally  boils.  The 
result  of  such  cooking  is  a  mixture  of  soot,  mud, 
ashes,  and  half-raw  flesh ;  but  with  their  hearty  appe- 
tites the  Eskimos  are  not  over-particular.  Besides, 
if  they  entertain  a  guest  of  distinction  they  begin  by 
licking  off  with  the  tongue  all  the  dirt  on  the  pieces 
destined  for  him.  Whoever  should  refuse  to  accept 
what  was  offered  him  after  this  extraordinary  act  of 
courtesy  in  cleaning  it,  would  be  regarded  as  an  im- 
polite, ill-bred  person/' 

"Bah!  the  dirty  things !"  cried  Emile.  "I  will 
take  good  care  never  to  be  one  of  tl/  .V  guests. " 

"And  the  tattooed  hunters  cooked  in  that  way?" 
Jules  inquired. 

"For  want  of  proper  utensils  they  apparently 
employed  similar  means.  But  let  us  finish  our  in- 
spection of  the  inside  of  the  aquatic  hut. 

"The  highest  point  in  the  roof  is  pierced  for  the 
passage  of  smoke  from  the  fireplace  situated  in  the 
center  of  the  hut,  between  two  stones  on  a  bed  of 
beaten  earth,  which  prevents  the  floor,  made  of 
branches,  from  catching  fire.  On  the  walls  are  hung 
the  hardwood  tomahawk,  flint  hatchets,  bone  arrows, 
and  the  net  of  bark  thongs,  still  damp  from  fishing 
in  the  lake  and  ornamented  on  the  edges  with  round 
pierced  stones.  On  the  branching  antlers  of  a  stag 
the  clothes  are  hung,  consisting  of  leopards'  and 
wolves'  skins  with  the  hair  on.  In  the  most  shel- 
tered corner  rush  mats  and  furs  carpet  the  floor  for 
the  night's  rest.  Finally,  in  front  of  the  door  the 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

little  wicker  boat  bobs  up  and  down.  Into  this  boat 
its  owners  can  step  right  from  their  threshhold. 

"The  straggling  village,  in  fact,  instead  of  being 
built  on  a  continuous  artificial  soil,  is  cut  up  into  nu- 
merous passages  of  open  water ;  the  village  streets 
are  canals.  To  pass  from  one  quarter  to  another, 
or  merely  to  visit  one's  neighbor,  one  must  go  by 
water.  So  all  day  long  there  is  a  continual  coming 
and  going  of  boats  from  one  group  of  huts  to  an- 
other. There  is  no  less  movement  between  the  vil- 
lage and  the  shores  of  the  lake,  whither  the  men  go 
a-hunting  and  whence  they  return  with  their  boats 
laden  with  venison,  when  the  aurochs  or  elk  has  suc- 
cumbed to  the  combined  exertions  of  men  and  dogs. 

"Thus,  in  prehistoric  times,  were  settlements  es- 
tablished on  the  various  lakes  of  France,  and,  still 
more,  of  Switzerland — lakes  large  enough  to  hold 
these  villages  by  the  hundred.  To-day  the  fisher- 
man whose  line  ripples  their  limpid  waters  sees  in 
the  blue  depths,  amid  a  great  mass  of  stones,  the  tops 
of  piles  carbonized  by  the  centuries,  and  large,  bulg- 
ing pieces  of  earthenware,  which  he  breaks  with  his 
oar  without  suspecting  their  venerable  origin. 
That  is  what  is  left  us  of  the  ancient  lake  villages." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE    JACKAL 


"\\  7  HAT  y°u  ha™  Just  told  us,  Uncle  Paul," 
V  V  Jules  remarked,  "is  not  unlike  what  navi- 
gators tell  us  of  the  life  of  savages." 

"Nevertheless,"  rejoined  his  uncle,  "it  is  our  own 
history,  my  friend;  it  is  really  a  chapter  of  French 
history.  '  > 

"I  never  read  anything  like  it  in  my  history- 
book." 

"Your  schoolbooks  generally  begin  with  the 
Frankish  chief,  Pharamond,  at  an  epoch  when  civil- 
ization had  already  made  considerable  progress,  and 
when  agriculture  and  grazing  had  been  known  for 
a  long  time.  My  story  goes  back  to  a  much  earlier 
period,  one  almost  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  past, 
and  shows  us  man  in  his  painful  beginnings,  un- 
skilled and  almost  wholly  dependent  on  hunting  for 
his  food  and  clothing. 

"In  that  state  of  extreme  destitution  in  which  the 
day's  supply  of  food  depended,  above  all,  on  fleet- 
ness  of  foot  and  quickness  of  scent,  the  dog  was  the 
most  precious  of  acquisitions.  With  its  aid,  first 
the  game  fell  more  abundantly  under  the  stone 
hatchet  and  flint-head  arrow;  then  came  the  possi- 
bility of  the  herd,  which,  furnishing  a  reserve  of 

173 


174  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

food,  freed  man  from  the  alternation  of  famine  and 
abundance,  and  gave  him  leisure  to  devise  means  for 
the  improvement  of  his  condition.  Then  the  ox  was 
tamed,  the  horse  mastered,  the  sheep  domesticated, 
and  finally  came  agriculture,  preeminent  source  of 
our  well-being.  That  is  how  the  tattooed  hunters 
of  our  country  lost  the  barbarism  of  their  habits  and 
advanced  from  one  stage  of  progress  to  another,  un- 
til they  became  the  cultivated  race  from  which  we 
are  descended.  First  in  Asia,  then  throughout  all 
Europe,  a  similar  development  took  place:  every- 
where the  dog  was  the  first  and  most  valuable  of 
man's  conquests,  and  everywhere  the  dog  has  repre- 
sented the  first  element  of  progress.  Without  the 
dog,  no  such  thing  as  human  society,  says  an  old  book 
of  the  East,  whence  this  most  serviceable  animal 
came.  And  the  old  book  is  a  thousand  times  right, 
for  without  the  dog  the  chase  in  old  times  would 
have  been  too  little  productive  to  satisfy  the  devour- 
ing hunger  of  a  very  thinly  scattered  population; 
without  the  dog,  no  herds  or  flocks,  no  assured  food, 
and  consequently  no  leisure,  for  the  inexorable  ne- 
cessity of  providing  food  would  have  occupied  the 
whole  time.  Without  leisure,  no  attempt  at  culture, 
no  observations  leading  to  the  birth  of  science,  no 
reflections  bearing  fruit  in  manufactures  and  com- 
merce. The  primitive  mode  of  life  was  a  hand-to- 
mouth  existence,  with  a  slice  of  broiled  urus  or  elk 
to  stay  the  cravings  of  hunger.  A  surfeit  one  day 
was  followed  by  fasting  the  next ;  it  all  depended  on 
the  chances  of  the  hunt.  Hatchets  continued  to  be 


THE  JACKAL  175 

fashioned  out  of  stone,  the  tattooing  of  the  body  in 
blue  went  on,  and  at  the  entrance  to  the  hut  the  en- 
emy's head  was  still  nailed  as  a  horrible  trophy  of 
war." 

"I  see,"  said  Louis,  "how  immensely  useful  the 
dog  has  been  and  still  is  to  us;  so  I  should  like  to 
know  at  what  time  and  by  whom  this  valuable  ani- 
mal was  trained  for  our  service." 

"No  one  could  give  a  satisfactory  answer  to  that 
question.  The  timing  of  the  dog  goes  back  to  the 
earliest  times  and  all  remembrance  of  it  is  lost. 
There  is  the  same  deep  obscurity  as  to  its  origin  and 
the  wild  species  from  which  it  is  descended.  No- 
where has  the  dog  been  seen  by  travelers  in  its  prim- 
itive state,  in  a  state  of  complete  independence.  If 
some  dogs  are  found  leading  a  wild  life,  they  are 
runaways ;  that  is  to  say,  dogs  that  have  fled  from 
domestic  life  to  live  as  they  please  in  desert  regions. 
Such  are  those  that  burrow  and  hunt  for  themselves 
in  the  vast  plains  of  South  America.  They  are  cer- 
tainly descended  from  domestic  dogs  carried  thither 
by  Europeans ;  for  at  the  time  of  its  discovery,  nearly 
four  centuries  ago,  the  New  World  had  no  dogs.  All 
that  can  be  affirmed  is  that  the  dog  came  to  us  from 
Asia  already  trained  for  man's  use.  Apparently 
Asia  made  a  gift  to  Europe  of  the  oldest  known  do- 
mestic animals,  such  as  the  ox,  the  'ass,  and  the  hen. 

"On  account  of  the  almost  infinite  variety  in  re- 
spect to  its  coat,  its  shape,  and  its  size,  it  is  suspected 
that  the  dog  is  not  derived  from  a  single  source  but 
comes  from  various  species  that  have  been  improved 


176  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

by  man  and  profoundly  modified  in  their  characteris- 
tics by  cross-breeding.  Among  these  wild  species  to 
which  is  given  the  honor  of  being  regarded  as  ances- 
tors of  the  domestic  dog,  I  will  mention  the  jackal, 
which  abounds  in  Africa  as  well  as  Asia. 

"The  jackal  looks  a  little  like  the  wolf,  but  is 
smaller  and  is  harmless  to  man.    Its  coat  is  red, 

varied  with  white  under 
the  stomach  and  black 
on  the  back.  It  has 
a  pointed  muzzle  and 
erect  ears.  Its  timidity 
causes  it  to  feed  on  the 
remnants  left  over  by 
animals  bolder  and 
Jackal  stronger  than  itself. 

When  the  gorged  lion  abandons  its  half-devoured 
prey,  the  jackals,  crouching  in  the  neighborhood  and 
waiting  until  his  lordship  has  finished,  hasten  up  in 
companies  to  the  disdained  carcass  and  clean  it  to  the 
bone.  For  the  same  reason  the  jackal  frequents  in 
troops  the  outskirts  of  villages  and  encampments  in 
the  hope  of  finding  garbage  and  carrion.  In  the  day- 
time it  stays  quietly  in  its  den  among  the  rocks,  but 
at  nightfall  it  issues  forth  in  quest  of  food  with  a 
sort  of  sharp  howling  that  continues  all  night. 
There  is  nothing  so  disagreeable  as  the  nocturnal 
concert  of  a  band  of  jackals  prowling  around  dwell- 
ings. One  of  them  begins  with  a  cry  something  like 
argee  in  a  very  piercing  and  prolonged  tone. 
Scarcely  has  it  finished  when  a  second  takes  up  the 


THE  JACKAL  177 

refrain  and  improves  upon  it;  then  a  third  and  a 
fourth,  until  the  whole  band  has  joined  in,  producing 
a  veritable  charivari  composed  of  a  mixed  chorus 
of  discordant  howls.  After  this  musical  feat,  solos 
are  in  order  again,  interspersed  with  choral  produc- 
tions; and  so  it  goes  on  until  daybreak.  Such  is 
the  infernal  music  that  awaits  the  sleeper  every 
night." 

"Oh,  what  disagreeable  neighbors !"  exclaimed 
Jules.  "If  the  dog  had  kept  any  of  those  detestable 
habits  it  would  be  a  very  troublesome  animal,  use- 
ful though  it  is." 

"The  dog  shows  not  seldom,  it  must  be  admitted, 
a  mania  for  making  the  night  hideous ;  but  it  cannot 
be  reproached  with  anything  comparable  to  the 
jackal's  concert.  The  dog  has  two  cries,  without 
counting  those  that  are  secondary.  One  of  the  two 
is  natural,  the  howl;  the  other  artificial,  the  bark. 
Is  it  necessary  to  point  out  to  you  the  difference  be- 
tween the  two!" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Uncle,"  Jules  was  quick 
to  reply.  ' '  The  dog  howls  when  it  gives  a  long,  wild 
cry,  so  mournful  and  terrifying  in  the  night ;  it  barks 
when  it  gives  those  short,  jerky  yelps.  It  howls 
from  fright,  sadness,  ennui;  it  barks  with  joy  and 
pleasure." 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  I  told  you,  then,  that  howling  is 
the  dog's  natural  voice.  In  it  can  be  found,  but 
with  a  very  different  action  of  the  throat  and  a  less 
sharp  tone,  something  of  the  jackal's  cry.  As  for 
the  bark,  it  is  an  artificial  utterance ;  that  is  to  say, 


178  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

it  lias  been  acquired.  Dogs  that  have  gone  back  to 
the  wild  state,  as  for  example  those  of  South  Amer- 
ica, can  no  longer  bark.  Deserters  from  civiliza- 
tion, they  have  lost  the  language  and  are  reduced 
to  their  primitive  howling,  which  they  share  with 
the  jackal  and  the  wolf." 

4 'And  how  does  a  dog  learn  to  bark  when  it  is  with 
us?" 

"It  learns  by  hearing  its  fellows,  the  other  dogs, 
bark.  If  it  were  brought  up  far  from  its  own  kind, 
it  would  never  know  how  to  bark,  any  more  than  we 
could  speak  our  language  if  we  had  never  heard  it 
spoken.  Well,  the  jackal  also  can  acquire  the  habit 
of  barking  by  education.  Placed  in  company  with 
the  dog,  which  by  its  example  initiates  it  into  a  new 
language,  it  barks  at  first  badly,  then  a  little  better, 
then  well,  and  in  a  short  time  the  scholar  almost 
equals  the  master. 

"The  primitive  species,  if  it  really  is  the  jackal, 
must  have,  as  you  see,  undergone  profound  changes 
affecting  even  its  most  inveterate  habits,  to  become 
the  domestic  dog.  It  must  have  lost  its  habit  of  noc- 
turnal prowling,  forgotten  its  predilection  for  con- 
certs of  ear-piercing  cries,  learned  to  bark,  and,  what 
is  far  more  difficult,  exchanged  its  timidity  for  bold- 
ness. Another  improvement  was  indispensable. 
The  jackal  gives  forth  from  all  over  its  body  a  strong 
fishy  smell.  To  become  the  companion  of  man  and 
to  live  in  his  home,  the  animal  had  to  be  rid  of  this 
infection.  That  is  what  the  progress  of  time  has 
done  almost  completely :  to-day  the  dog  has  scarcely 


THE  JACKAL  179 

any  odor  except  when  warm  from  rapid  hunting; 
but  it  is  likely,  in  view  of  its  presumed  origin,  that 
in  the  beginning  the  dog  was  not  precisely  a  bou- 
quet of  roses  beside  its  master.  Doubtless  it  was 
denied  access  to  the  hut,  which  it  would  have  infected 
with  its  odor,  and  was  relegated  to  a  distant  spot 
outside  in  the  open  air. 

" Those  are  not  all  the  jackal's  defects.  It  is  true 
the  animal  is  easily  tamed,  but  without  acquiring  the 
docility  and  attachment  of  the  dog.  When  pressed 
by  hunger,  it  is  gentle  and  caressing  toward  the  mas- 
ter who  gives  it  something  to  eat ;  when  satiated,  it 
shows  its  teeth  and  tries  to  bite  if  any  one  reaches 
out  to  take  hold  of  it.  Children,  whom  dogs  so  love 
to  play  with,  do  not  gain  its  confidence  any  more 
than  grown  people.  Whoever  should  try  to  pull  its 
tail  in  play  would  certainly  get  bitten. " 

"Our  Medor  has  a  much  better  disposition, "  said 
Emile ;  * '  the  more  pranks  I  play  with  him,  the  better 
he  likes  it.  I  M  a  good  deal  rather  play  with  him 
than  with  a  stinking  jackal. " 

"Medor  owes  his  excellent  qualities,  particularly 
his  honest,  dogged  patience,  to  the  extraordinary 
pains  taken  during  long  centuries  to  improve  his 
breed;  but  certainly  the  primitive  dog  must  have 
been  a  pretty  rough  playmate  for  little  boys.  He 
did  not  allow  any  one  to  pull  his  mustache,  did  not 
give  the  paw,  did  not  play  dead  with  four  legs  in  the 
air,  did  not  wait  for  the  command  to  jump  and  snap 
the  crust  of  bread  placed  on  the  tip  of  his  nose. 
The  jackal,  docile  only  when  hungry,  shows  you 


180  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

what  could  be  expected  from  Medor's  surly  ances- 
tors. " 

' '  Then  even  with  much  care  the  tame  jackal  never 
acquires  the  dog's  gentleness  V9  queried  Louis. 

1 '  Never.  Some,  more  tractable  than  others,  grow 
a  little  more  gentle,  but  without  ever  becoming  en- 
tirely submissive.  They  always  retain  something  of 
their  primitive  wildness  and  cannot  be  left  wholly 
free  without  committing  misdeeds  or  even  running 
away  from  home." 

"If  thorough  taming  is  impossible,  I  don't  see  how 
the  dog  can  come  from  the  jackal." 

"Complete  domestication  does  not  take  place  so 
quickly  as  you  think,  my  dear  friend.  A  long  suc- 
cession of  individuals  is  necessary,  transmitting 
from  one  to  another  the  desired  aptitudes,  and  in- 
creasing them  by  turning  to  account  such  gain  as 
may  be  noted  in  the  best  examples  of  each  new  gen- 
eration. Let  us  assume  that  in  ancient  times  man 
had  taken  into  his  keeping  the  half-tamed  jackal, 
such  as  we  could  to-day  possess  ourselves  of.  How- 
ever surly  it  may  remain,  the  animal  will  be  better 
after  several  years'  education  than  it  was  at  the  be- 
ginning. With  continued  care  the  good  qualities  ac- 
quired, though  weak,  will,  as  we  say  of  the  snow- 
ball, increase  by  rolling.  In  fact  it  is  a  rule,  as  well 
with  beasts  as  with  us,  that  the  son  inherits  the 
father's  qualities,  good  or  bad.  •  Thus  the  jack- 
al's little  ones,  brought  up  with  man,  will  from  their 
birth  be  half -tamed,  as  were  their  parents.  As  char- 
acter is  far  from  being  the  same  in  a  whole  family, 


THE  JACKAL  181 

some  will  be  wilder,  others  more  submissive.  The 
first  are  rejected,  the  second  kept,  as  soon  as  it  is 
possible  to  recognize  this  diversity  of  disposition. 
Here,  then,  the  sons,  with, continued  training,  become 
superior  to  the  fathers.  The  same  care,  the  same  se- 
lection, in  the  third  generation,  will  insure  increased 
progress  in  the  grandchildren.  The  acquired  im- 
provement will  be  transmitted  by  inheritance  to 
the  great-grandchildren,  these  will  still  further  add 
to  it,  and  it  will  be  inherited  by  their  descendants, 
or,  if  not  by  all,  at  least  by  some.  These  latter  will 
be  raised  in  preference  to  the  others.  However 
slight  the  progress  from  one  generation  to  the  next, 
it  will  continually  be  added  to  by  the  intervention  of 
man  who  always  selects  for  breeding  purposes  the 
most  promising  offspring,  until,  little  by  little,  in 
course  of  time  the  beast  that  was  intractable  in  the 
beginning  at  last  becomes  docile. 

' l  This  onward  march,  which  is  kept  up  by  accumu- 
lating in  the  animal,  through  inheritance,  the  quali- 
ties desired,  by  always  picking  out  the  individual 
possessing  these  qualities  in  the  highest  degree,  is 
called  selection,  meaning  choice  or  sorting.  The 
method  of  selection,  which  to-day  still  renders  the 
greatest  service  to  the  perfecting  of  species,  has 
doubtless  played  an  important  part  in  the  domestica,- 
tion  of  the  dog;  but  that  alone  is  not  what  has  made 
the  dog  such  as  we  now  have  him.  The  astonishing 
variety  of  dogs  can  only  be  explained  by  the  multi- 
plex origin  of  the  animal  and  the  crossing  of  the  va- 
rious breeds.  I  have  just  told  you  of  one  species,  the 


182  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

common  jackal,  which  is  suspected  to  be  one  of  the 
dog's  ancestors.  To  finish  what  I  have  to  say  on 
this  exceedingly  obscure  question,  I  will  add  a  few 
words  concerning  a  second,  species. 

"  There  is  found  in  the  mountains  of  Abyssinia  a 
jackal  with  very  slender  body,  an  arched  abdomen, 
long  and  narrow  head,  long,  upward-curling  tail 
— in  short,  a  veritable  greyhound  in  every  respect 
except  that  it  has  erect  instead  of  drooping  ears. 
Everything  induces  belief  that  this  jackal  is  the  pro- 
genitor of  our  greyhound. 

'  *  I  will  end  with  this  conclusion  of  one  of  our  most 
learned  masters  on  the  origin  of  domestic  animals : 
*  Existing  in  great  numbers  in  Asia,  where,  history 
tells  us,  the  dog  was  first  domesticated,  jackals  com- 
monly live  within  reach  of  human  habitations,  to 
which  they  sometimes  make  their  way  of  their  own 
accord.  They  are  eminently  sociable,  are  easily 
tamed,  and  become  attached  to  their  masters.  They 
associate  freely  with  the  dog.  Finally,  and  this  trait 
dispels -my  last  lingering  doubt  as  to  their  kinship, 
they  resemble  in  the  highest  degree,  both  in  shape 
and  in  color,  and  even  in  voice  where  they  have 
learned  to  bark,  the  least  modified  of  the  canine  spe- 
cies. In  several  countries  the  resemblance  between 
jackals  and  dogs  is  so  striking  that  it  has  led  all  trav- 
elers who  have  had  an  opportunity  to  compare  these 
animals  on  the  spot  to  the  same  conclusion :  the  jackal 
and  the  dog  represent  respectively  the  parent  stock 
and  the  scion,  and  are  to  be  found  reunited  again  in 
various  parts  of  Asia  and  Africa.'  " 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE   CHIEF   BREEDS   OF   DOGS 

"  T    ET  us  not  dwell  further  on  the  dog's  origin — a 

I  1  very  obscure  question,  concerning  which  all 

that  one  can  say  is  nothing  but  supposition,  although 

more  or  less  plausible.    Let  us  turn  to  the  study  of 

the  animal  as  found  in  a  state  of  domestication. 

"It  would  be  hard  to  discover  two  dogs  exactly 
alike.  Were  they  of  the  same  breed,  the  same  shape 
and  size,  they  would  differ  in  coat,  at  least  in  some 
details.  Three  colors,  red,  white,  and  black,  belong 
to  the  dog's  coat;  sometimes  one  alone  for  the  whole 
body,  sometimes  all  mixed,  sometimes  the  three  dis- 
tributed in  spots  or  in  great  splashes.  If  the  color- 
ing is  varied,  the  spots  are  hardly  ever  arranged  in 
order,  but  scattered  by  chance.  There  is  want  of 
symmetry  in  their  distribution;  or,  in  other  words, 
on  the  two  halves  of  the  body,  the  right  and  left,  the 
spots  do  not  correspond.  You  might  say  the  same  of 
most  domestic  animals:  you  would  nearly  always 
note  differences  between  two  oxen,  two  horses,  two 
goats,  two  cats ;  and  would  find  that  in  the  same  ani- 
mal both  sides  of  the  body  are  not  exactly  alike  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  colors. 
"It  is  just  the  reverse  with  wild  animals :  there  is 

183 


184  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

close  resemblance  between  individuals  of  the  same 
species,  and  symmetry  of  coloring  on  the  two  halves 
of  the  body.  As  one  is,  so  are  all,  with  very  slight 
exceptions ;  as  is  the  right  side,  so  is  the  left.  Who- 
ever has  seen  one  wolf  has  seen  all  wolves ;  whoever 
has  seen  from  one  side  an  animal  with  variegated 
coat  has  seen  both  sides.  One  of  the  most  constant 
effects,  therefore,  of  domestication  is  the  replacing 
of  this  primitive  regularity  in  color  by  irregularity, 
this  similarity  in  individuals  by  dissimilarity. 

"The  dog's  coat  goes  contrary  to  every  rule  except 
in  one  most  curious  respect :  if  the  animal  is  spotted 
with  white,  one  of  these  white  spots  is  always  on  the 
end  of  the  tail.  Examine  a  black  dog,  for  example : 
if  you  see  so  much  as  one  white  speck  on  it,  no  matter 
where,  on  the  flank,  or  on  the  shoulder,  you  will  be 
sure  to  see  one  where  I  told  you.  Look  at  the  end 
of  the  tail  and  you  will  find  at  least  a  touch  of  white 
there. " 

"  So  it  is  enough  to  see  some  white  on  any  part  of  a 
dog  to  be  sure  that  it  will  have  some  also  on  the  tip 
of  its  tail!"  This  from  Jules. 

" Certainly,"  replied  his  uncle,  "unless,  of  course, 
the  animal  has  had  its  tail  cut,  in  which  case  I  will  not 
answer  for  it. ' ' 

"That  is  plain  enough:  with  the  tip  of  the  tail 
missing  the  white  touch  is  missing  too." 

"I  will  add  that  if  the  dog  has  only  one  white  spot, 
that  spot  will  always  be  on  the  tip  of  the  tail." 

"That  singularity  must  have  a  reason?"  queried 
Louis. 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  185 

"  Doubtless  it  has  a  reason,  for  nothing  is  left  to 
chance  in  this  world,  not  even  the  tuft  of  hair  at  the 
tip  of  an  animal's  tail.  I  will  tell  you,  then,  that  the 
various  wild  species  akin  to  the  dog,  jackals  in  par- 
ticular, have,  most  of  them,  a  white  spot  on  the  tip 
of  the  tail.  It  is  a  sort  of  family  trait  which  the  dog, 
their  ally,  perhaps  their  descendant,  is  sure  to  imi- 
tate every  time  it  admits  any  white  into  its  coat. 
Strange  development !  If  the  dog  comes,  as  is  sup- 
posed, from  the  jackal,  it  has  lost  its  primitive  sav- 
agery, its  bad  odor,  its  nocturnal  cries,  and  has  faith- 
fully retained  from  its  ancestry  only  the  plume  at 
the  end  of  its  tail.  I  will  not  undertake  to  explain 
why,  in  a  fundamental  change  of  habits,  one  insignifi- 
cant detail,  a  mere  nothing,  shows  greater  tenacity 
and  remains. 

' '  To  the  differences  in  color  are  added  differences 
in  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  hair.  Most  dogs 
have  short,  smooth  hair ;  some  have  fine,  curly  hair, 
and  look  as  if  clothed  in  wool.  Such  is  the  barbet, 
also  called  sheep-dog,  because  its  fur  reminds  one  of 
the  curly  fleece  of  a  sheep.  Others,  like  the  spaniel, 
have  long  and  wavy  hair,  especially  on  the  ears  and 
tail.  Finally,  there  are  some  wretched,  unsightly 
dogs  with  the  body  entirely  naked.  One  would  think 
that  some  skin  disease  had  bereft  them  of  their  last 
hair.  They  are  called  Turkish  dogs. 

1 '  The  size  is  not  less  variable.  The  Newfoundland 
dog  is  a  majestic  animal,  as  large  as  a  calf;  and  then 
you  will  see  a  curly  lap-dog,  good  for  sleeping  on 
drawing-room  cushions,  so  tiny  a  creature  that  it 


184  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

close  resemblance  between  individuals  of  the  same 
species,  and  symmetry  of  coloring  on  the  two  halves 
of  the  body.  As  one  is,  so  are  all,  with  very  slight 
exceptions ;  as  is  the  right  side,  so  is  the  left.  Who- 
ever has  seen  one  wolf  has  seen  all  wolves ;  whoever 
has  seen  from  one  side  an  animal  with  variegated 
coat  has  seen  both  sides.  One  of  the  most  constant 
effects,  therefore,  of  domestication  is  the  replacing 
of  this  primitive  regularity  in  color  by  irregularity, 
this  similarity  in  individuals  by  dissimilarity. 

"The  dog's  coat  goes  contrary  to  every  rule  except 
in  one  most  curious  respect :  if  the  animal  is  spotted 
with  white,  one  of  these  white  spots  is  always  on  the 
end  of  the  tail.  Examine  a  black  dog,  for  example : 
if  you  see  so  much  as  one  white  speck  on  it,  no  matter 
where,  on  the  flank,  or  on  the  shoulder,  you  will  be 
sure  to  see  one  where  I  told  you.  Look  at  the  end 
of  the  tail  and  you  will  find  at  least  a  touch  of  white 
there." 

"So  it  is  enough  to  see  some  white  on  any  part  of  a 
dog  to  be  sure  that  it  will  have  some  also  on  the  tip 
of  its  tail?"  This  from  Jules. 

* ' Certainly, "  replied  his  uncle,  "unless,  of  course, 
the  animal  has  had  its  tail  cut,  in  which  case  I  will  not 
answer  for  it." 

"That  is  plain  enough:  with  the  tip  of  the  tail 
missing  the  white  touch  is  missing  too." 

"I  will  add  that  if  the  dog  has  only  one  white  spot, 
that  spot  will  always  be  on  the  tip  of  the  tail." 

"That  singularity  must  have  a  reason!"  queried 
Louis. 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  185 

4 'Doubtless  it  has  a  reason,  for  nothing  is  left  to 
chance  in  this  world,  not  even  the  tuft  of  hair  at  the 
tip  of  an  animal's  tail.  I  will  tell  you,  then,  that  the 
various  wild  species  akin  to  the  dog,  jackals  in  par- 
ticular, have,  most  of  them,  a  white  spot  on  the  tip 
of  the  tail.  It  is  a  sort  of  family  trait  which  the  dog, 
their  ally,  perhaps  their  descendant,  is  sure  to  imi- 
tate every  time  it  admits  any  white  into  its  coat. 
Strange  development !  If  the  dog  comes,  as  is  sup- 
posed, from  the  jackal,  it  has  lost  its  primitive  sav- 
agery, its  bad  odor,  its  nocturnal  cries,  and  has  faith- 
fully retained  from  its  ancestry  only  the  plume  at 
the  end  of  its  tail.  I  will  not  undertake  to  explain 
why,  in  a  fundamental  change  of  habits,  one  insignifi- 
cant detail,  a  mere  nothing,  shows  greater  tenacity 
and  remains. 

' i  To  the  differences  in  color  are  added  differences 
in  the  quantity  and  quality  of  the  hair.  Most  dogs 
have  short,  smooth  hair ;  some  have  fine,  curly  hair, 
and  look  as  if  clothed  in  wool.  Such  is  the  barbet, 
also  called  sheep-dog,  because  its  fur  reminds  one  of 
the  curly  fleece  of  a  sheep.  Others,  like  the  spaniel, 
have  long  and  wavy  hair,  especially  on  the  ears  and 
tail.  Finally,  there  are  some  wretched,  unsightly 
dogs  with  the  body  entirely  naked.  One  would  think 
that  some  skin  disease  had  bereft  tbem  of  their  last 
hair.  They  are  called  Turkish  dogs. 

' '  The  size  is  not  less  variable.  The  Newfoundland 
dog  is  a  majestic  animal,  as  large  as  a  calf;  and  then 
you  will  see  a  curly  lap-dog,  good  for  sleeping  on 
drawing-room  cushions,  so  tiny  a  creature  that  it 


186  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

could  go  into  its  master's  pocket.  Between  these 
two  extremes  there  are  all  degrees. 

"If  we  enter  on  the  details  of  shape,  what  diver- 
sity, again,  do  we  find!  Here  the  ear  is  small  and 
stands  up  in  a  point ;  there  it  is  large  and  covers  the 
whole  of  the  temple,  and  hangs  down  low  enough  to 
dip  into  the  porringer  out  of  which  the  animal  eats. 
One,  active  in  the  chase,  carries  its  slender  body  on 
long  legs ;  another,  apt  at  insinuating  itself  into  the 
fox's  narrow  hole  or  the  rabbit's  burrow,  trots  on 
stubby  members  and  almost  touches  the  ground  with 
its  stomach.  In  this  one  the  muzzle  is  gracefully  ta- 
pered, made  for  caresses ;  in  that,  it  is  shortened  into 
a  brutal  snout,  adapted  to  warfare.  Then  there  are 
some  whose  knotty  and  twisted  legs  seem  crippled 
from  birth ;  and  there  are  others  whose  nose,  black  as 
coal,  has  the  two  nostrils  separated  by  a  deep 
trench. ' ' 

"Those  dogs  look  as  if  they  had  a  double  nose," 
Louis  remarked.  "They  are  said  to  have  a  keener 
scent  than  the  others." 

"I  don't  know  how  far  the  split  nose  may  indicate 
keenness  of  scent.  Let  us  go  on  and  take  a  rapid 
glance  at  the  principal  breeds  of  dogs. 

"Let  us  first  mention  the  mastiff,  vigilant  guard- 
ian of  the  farm-house  and  courageous  protector 
of  the  flock.  It  is  a  robust,  bold  animal,  tolerably 
large,  with  short  hair  on  the  back,  longer  under  the 
belly  and  on  the  tail.  It  has  a  long  head,  flat  fore- 
head, ears  erect  at  the  base  and  drooping  at  the  tip, 
strong  legs,  and  vigorous  jaws.  White,  black,  gray, 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  187 

brown  are  the  colors  of  its  coat.  The  mastiff  has 
rustic  manners,  scent  far  from  keen,  intelligence 
little  developed.  It  is  found  fault  with  for  not  being 
very  docile  and  not  lavishing  its  caresses.  Is  the 
charge  well  founded?  When  one  leads  a  rude  life  in 
mountain  pastures,  often  at  close  quarters  with 
wolves,  can  one  possess  the  pretty,  endearing  ways 
of  the  dog  reared  in  idleness?  Is  not  a  severe  man- 
ner the  necessary  condition  of  the  grave  duties  to  be 
performed?  The  mastiff  has  the  qualities  of  its  lot 
in  life,  and  it  has  them  to  such  a  degree  that  it  is  not 
always  of  the  same  opinion  as  its  master,  knowing 
better  than  he  what  must  be  done  to  protect  the  flock. 
Let  a  wolf  appear,  and  without  considering  whether 
it  is  the  stronger  or  weaker,  the  brave  dog  will  throw 
itself  on  the  beast  and  seize  it  by  the  nape  of  the  neck, 
even  at  the  risk  of  perishing  in  the  battle.  The  mas- 
tiff does  not  weigh  the  danger;  it  leaps  to  the  call 
of  duty — a  noble  quality,  and  one  that  has  given  rise 
to  the  likening  of  an  energetic  and  resolute  person  to 
a  good  mastiff." 

"This  wolf-strangler,"  said  Emile,  "has  my  high- 
est esteem,  although  he  is  not  clever  at  offering  the 
paw  and  playing  dead." 

"You  will  have  no  less  esteem  for  the  shepherd 
dog.  It  is  of  medium  size,  generally  black,  with  long 
hair  all  over  the  body  except  on  the  muzzle.  It  has 
short,  erect  ears,  tail  horizontal  or  drooping.  You 
know  with  what  a  swagger  most  dogs  carry  their  tail 
over  their  back,  curved  like  a  trumpet.  With  them 
that  is  a  sign  of  high  satisfaction.  If  they  are  anx- 


190  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

you.'  And  without  glancing  at  them  he  continues 
his  watchful  following  of  the  flock.  It  is  wise  of 
him,  for  already  some  sheep  have  stopped  to  crop 
the  grass  at  the  side  of  the  road.  To  make  them  re- 
join the  flock  takes  but  a  minute.  At  this  spot  the 
hedge  is  open,  and  through  the  gap  a  part  of  the 
flock  reaches  a  field  of  green  wheat.  To  follow  these 
undisciplined  ones  by  the  same  breach  would  betray 
a  lack  of  skill ;  the  sheep,  driven  from  behind,  would 
only  stray  still  farther  into  the  forbidden  field.  But 
the  wily  keeper  will  not  commit  this  fault ;  he  makes 
a  rapid  detour,  jumps  over  the  hedge  as  best  he  can, 
and  presents  himself  suddenly  in  front  of  the  flock, 
which  hastily  retreats  by  the  way  it  came,  not  with- 
out leaving  some  tufts  of  wool  on  the  bushes. 

"Now  the  flock  meets  another.  A  mixing  up,  a 
confusion  of  mine  and  thine,  must  be  prevented. 
The  dog  thoroughly  understands  the  gravity  of  the 
situation.  Along  the  flanks  of  the  two  bleating  flocks 
he  maneuvers  busily,  running  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  back  and  forth,  to  check  at  the  outset  any  at- 
tempt at  desertion  from  one  to  the  other  flock. " 

"Then,"  said  Emile,  "he  knows  his  sheep,  every 
single  one  of  them,  to  be  able  thus  to  distinguish 
which  belong  to  him  and  which  do  not. ' r 

"One  would  almost  say  so,  such  discernment  does 
he  show. 

"Scarcely  is  this  difficulty  overcome  when  another 
presents  itself.  Here,  right  and  left,  the  road  has  no 
fences ;  access  to  the  fields  is  free  on  both  sides.  The 
temptation  to  the  flock  is  great,  for  here  and  there 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  191 

most  inviting  greensward  appears.  The  dog  re- 
doubles its  activity.  Let  us  go  to  the  left.  Well 
and  good;  everything  is  in  proper  train.  Now  to 
the  right.  Ha,  you  down  there !  Will  you  please  go 
on  without  stopping  to  crop  the  young  grass?  That 
is  well.  Now  to  the  rear.  Wrhat  is  that  loiterer  do- 
ing there!  Back  to  the  flock,  quick,  dawdler!  Per- 
haps something  new  has  happened  on  the  left ;  let  us 
go  and  see.  And  without  a  moment 's  relaxation  the 
indefatigable  dog  goes  first  to  one  side,  then  to  the 
other,  then  to  the  rear  of  the  flock  to  hurry  up  the 
laggards  and  keep  the  intractable  ones  in  the  right 
path.  If  some,  more  headstrong,  turn  a  deaf  ear 
to  his  advice  and  scatter,  he  is  after  them  in  a  mo- 
ment, bringing  them  back  by  buffeting  their  shins 
with  his  muzzle. ' ' 

"And  by  giving  them  a  taste  of  his  teeth  too?" 
asked  Jules. 

"No,  my  friend;  a  well-trained  shepherd  dog  does 
not  use  his  teeth,  which  would  wound  the  animal;  a 
threat  must  suffice  to  bring  his  sheep  to  order.  To 
teach  him  this  moderation,  it  is  necessary  to  take  him 
quite  young  and  exercise  a  great  deal  of  persever- 
ance, with  caresses,  dainties,  and,  if  need  be,  punish- 
ment; above  all,  he  must  be  brought  up  in  the  com- 
pany of  a  comrade  already  very  expert  in  the  busi- 
ness, since  example  is  the  best  of  teachers.  The  first 
time  he  is  sent  after  the  sheep  he  is  closely  watched, 
and  if  he  shows  a  disposition  to  bite  he  is  severely 
corrected.  The  best  shepherd  dogs  come  to  us  from 
Brie,  a  part  of  old  Champagne.  From  this  country 


192  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

is  taken  the  name  generally  used  for  the  guardian  of 
the  flock.  Other  dogs  are  called  Medor,  Sultan, 
Azor;  he  is  called  Labrie." 

"I  understand, "  Emile  nodded.    "Labrie;  that 
is  to  say,  the  dog  of  la  Brie." 


CHAPTEE  XXI 

THE   CHIEF   BBEEDS   OF   DOGS 
(Continued) 

ET  us  continue  our  survey  of  the  principal  ca- 
nine breeds.  In  size  and  strength  the  Dane 
approaches  the  mastiff,  but  is  easily  distinguished 
from  it  by  its  coat,  which  is  generally  white,  with  nu- 
merous round  black  spots.  It  is  a  magnificent  dog, 
not  very  common,  the  guardian  of  fine  houses,  the 
friend  of  horses,  and  especially  fond  of  running  and 
barking  before  its  master's  carriage." 

"Is  that  all  it  knows  how  to  do?"  Emile  inquired. 

"Pretty  nearly." 

"Then  I  'd  rather  have  Labrie." 

"I  too.  With  its  modest  appearance  and  ill-kempt 
coat  the  shepherd  dog  has  an  intelligence  and  use- 
fulness incomparably  superior  to  the  Dane's,  lordly 
creature  though  the  latter  is  with  its  royally  be- 
spangled coat  like  that  of  the  tiger  and  panther. 
Never  judge  either  people  or  dogs  by  their  appear- 
ance. 

"The  harrier  is  endowed  with  a  more  tapering 
head,  a  longer  muzzle,  than  any  other  breed.  Its 
ears  are  half-drooping  and  point  backward,  its  chest 
narrow,  abdomen  arched  as  if  emaciated,  legs  long 
and  slender,  tail  also  long  and  slender,  and  its  entire 

193 


194  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

form  distinguished  by  the  same  slenderness.  It  is 
the  fleetest  of  all  dogs.  It  routs  out  the  hare  in 
hunting;  hence  its  name." 

uHare  and  harrier  are  indeed  rather  similar  in 
spelling, "  observed  Jules. 

"Its  color,  less  mixed  than  in  the  other  breeds, 
is  generally  uniform,  sometimes  tawny,  sometimes 
black,  sometimes  gray  or  even  white.  Some  har- 
riers have  short  hair,  others  long ;  in  fact,  there  are 
some  that  are  quite  hairless  like  the  Turkish  dog. 
This  dog  is  not  very  intelligent  and  shows  no  pe- 
culiar attachment  to  its  master,  but  will  fawn  upon 
anybody.  Its  scent  is  imperfect,  though  its  eyesight 
is  excellent,  and  that  is  what  guides  it  in  the  chase, 
while  other  dogs  are  guided  by  the  scent. 

"The  spaniel  owes  the  name  it  bears  to  its  Spanish 
origin.  This  beautiful  dog  is  characterized  by  its 
slender,  moderately  long  head;  by  its  long,  wavy 
hair,  which  is  particularly  abundant  on  the  ears, 
which  are  drooping  and  silky,  and  on  the  tail,  which 
forms  a  tuft  or  plume.  No  dog  has  a  more  amiable 
and  gentle  aspect.  Intelligence  and  attachment  to 
its  master  can  be  read  in  its  eyes.  Of  all  dogs  it  is 
the  one  your  Uncle  Paul  would  choose  by  prefer- 
ence as  a  friend.  To  this  worth  in  respect  to  moral 
qualities  add  this  other  virtue,  that  the  spaniel  is 
an  expert  hunter.  In  this  breed  are  found  dogs  with 
the  split  or  double  nose ;  but  this  peculiarity  does  not 
seem  to  add  to  their  keenness  of  scent. 

"The  barbet,  otherwise  water  spaniel  or  sheep 
dog,  is  another  of  your  Uncle  Paul's  favorites  on 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  195 

account  of  its  exceptional  intelligence,  its  gentle 
disposition,  and  its  unequaled  faithfulness.  Who 
among  you  does  not  know  the  barbet  with  its  big 
round  head,  full  of  good  will,  its  large  drooping  ears, 
short  legs,  squat  body,  long,  fine  and  curly  hair,  al- 
most like  wool,  which  has  given  it  the  name  of  sheep 
dog?  When  half-shorn,  as  it  is  in  the  summer,  it  is 
still  more  comely.  The  hind  quarters  are  naked  and 
show  the  rosy  skin ;  the  fore  part  of  the  body  is  cov- 
ered with  a  thick  mane  as  white  as  cotton  wool.  A 
coquettish  tuft  finishes  off  the  tail,  elegant  ruffles 
adorn  the  legs,  the  muzzle  bears  a  mustache  and 
small  beard,  which  latter  perhaps  accounts  for  its 
name  of  barbet. 

"  Sheep — let  us  call  it  thus,  as  it  is  generally  called 
— Sheep  is  a  past  master  in  accomplishments.  He 
plays  dead,  offers  the  paw,  jumps  over  an  extended 
cane,  stands  up  with  a  piece  of  sugar  on  his  nose,  and 
goes  through  his  drill  with  a  gun  and  with  a  paper 
cap  set  swaggeringly  over  one  ear.  But  those  are 
the  least  of  his  talents.  Sheep  is  the  clever  one  of 
the  family.  With  careful  education  it  is  possible 
to  cram  this  dog's  excellent  noddle  with  the  most 
astonishing  things.  I  have  known  some,  my  chil- 
dren, that  could  tell  the  time  by  their  master's  watch 
without  a  mistake." 

"They  could  tell  the  time!"  cried  Jules  incredu- 
lously. "You  are  jesting,  Uncle." 

' '  No,  my  friend,  I  am  not  jesting.  The  watch  was 
shown  to  the  dog,  who  looked  at  it  attentively, 
seemed  to  make  a  calculation  in  his  mind,  then 


196  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

barked  just  as  many  times  as  the  hand  marked 
hours." 

1  'That  is  capital,  I  declare!" 

"But  there  is  still  better  coming.  I  know  of  a 
barbet  that  plays  domino s  with  its  master,  and  the 
master  does  not  always  win,  either.  As  such  talents 
are  exercised  by  bread-winning  barbets  for  those 
who  show  them  off,  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
dog's  intelligence  is  aided  in  the  game  by  some  signs 
from  the  master  that  pass  unperceived  by  the  spec- 
tators. No  matter :  there  is  enough  to  confound  our 
poor  reasoning  powers  in  the  calculating  faculty  of 
the  animal  as  it  counts  its  points,  makes  out  those 
of  its  adversary,  and  as  a  result  pushes  the  proper 
domino  with  the  end  of  its  nose. 

"To  his  intellectual  faculties  Sheep  adds,  in  a 
high  degree,  the  faculties  of  the  heart,  which  are 
still  more  to  be  desired.  Sheep  is  the  blind  man's 
dog  and  guides  him  patiently,  avoiding  every  ob- 
stacle, through  the  crowd  by  means  of  a  string  at- 
tached to  the  animal's  collar.  When  the  master 
stands  on  the  street-corner,  begging  pity  with  his 
shrill  clarinet,  Sheep,  seated  in  a  suppliant  posture, 
holds  the  wooden  bowl  in  his  teeth  and  offers  it  to 
the  passers-by.  If  the  master  dies,  the  dear  master 
who  shared  the  crust  of  bread  with  him  like  a 
brother,  Sheep  follows  the  coffin,  lonely,  sad,  pitiful 
to  see.  He  crouches  on  the  mound  that  covers  his 
master,  pines  there  for  a  few  days,  and  finally  falls 
asleep  there  in  the  sleep  of  death.  By  what  name 
should  such  a  devoted  creature  be  called?  The  blind 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  197 

call  him  Fido  (the  faithful  one),  and  this  name  is  in 
itself  the  finest  of  elegies. " 

"The  barbet  is  a  noble  dog,"  declared  Jules. 

"In  addition  to  all  this  it  is  a  good  hunting  dog. 
As  it  willingly  jumps  into  the  water,  is  a  skilful 
swimmer,  and  retrieves  with  indomitable  zeal,  it  is 
much  in  demand  for  hunting  water-fowl.  When  the 
master's  shot  has  brought  down  a  wild  duck,  Sheep 
goes  and  fetches  it  from  the  middle  of  the  pond. 
Sometimes  a  bitter  wind  is  blowing  and  the  water  is 
frozen.  Sheep  does  not  care  for  that:  he  swims 
bravely  through  the  broken  ice,  brings  back  the 
game,  shakes  his  wet  coat,  and  waits,  shivering  with 
cold,  for  the  report  of  another  shot  before  starting 
off  again." 

"He  will  certainly  have  earned  the  duck's  bones 
when  the  game  comes  on  to  the  table,"  said  Emile. 
t  i  To  jump  into  the  icy  water  like  that !  Poor  fellow ! 
Brrr!  it  makes  the  shivers  run  down  one's  back  only 
to  think  of  it." 

"Because  of  his  exploits  in  duck-hunting  this  dog 
is  known  also  as  the  water  spaniel.  But  now  let  us 
pass  on  to  another  breed. 

"The  hound  is  preeminently  the  dog  of  the  chase. 
It  has  an  extremely  keen  scent,  which  enables  it  to 
trace  the  route  followed  by  the  game  simply  from 
the  odor  of  the  emanations  left  by  the  passage  of  the 
animal.  Guided  by  a  faint  odor  that  would  be  im- 
perceptible to  any  other  nose,  it  goes  as  straight  to 
the  hare  as  if  it  had  had  it  constantly  in  sight. 
There  is  a  wonderful  sensitiveness  in  its  nostrils 


198  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

which  our  sense  of  smell  only  distantly  approaches. 
It  is  a  sense  superior  in  delicacy  to  sight,  which  dis- 
tance and  want  of  light  place  at  a  disadvantage, 
whereas  distance  and  obscurity  do  not  in  the  least 
impair  the  infallibility  of  the  dog's  nose.  Let  the 
hare,  warmed  by  the  chase,  merely  graze  with  its 
back  a  .tuft  of  bushes ;  that  is  enough  and  more  than 
enough  to  put  the  hound  on  the  track.  To  witness 
the  unerring  assurance  of  the  pursuit,  one  might. im- 
agine that  the  hunted  animal  had  traced  in  the  air  a 
trail  visible  to  the  dog. ' ' 

"That  sort  of  thing, "  Emile  interrupted,  "may 
be  seen  any  day  without  going  into  the  woods  with 
the  hunter.  The  master,  unknown  to  the  dog,  hides 
his  handkerchief  in  a  place  hard  to  find ;  then  he  says 
to  the  animal,  *  Seek ! '  The  dog  sniffs  the  air  a  mo- 
ment to  get  a  clue,  and  then  runs  to  the  handkerchief 
and  brings  it  back  in  high  glee.  If  I  had  such  a  nose 
nobody  would  play  hide-and-seek  with  me :  I  should 
find  my  playmates  too  easily. ' ' 

"Most  dogs,  some  more,  some  less,  have  an  as- 
tonishingly keen  scent;  but  the  hound  is  the  best 
endowed  in  this  respect,  especially  in  all  that  con- 
cerns the  chase,  and  so  it  is  the  hunter's  favorite. 
It  has  rather  a  large  muzzle,  strong  head,  vigorous 
and  long  body,  tail  uplifted,  very  short  hair,  gener- 
ally white  varied  with  large  black  or  brown  spots, 
and  ears  drooping  and  remarkably  large." 

"One  could  use  them  like  a  handkerchief  to  wipe 
the  animal's  nose  and  eyes,"  Emile  interposed. 

"The  beagle  stands  very  low  on  its  legs.    More- 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  199 

over,  its  legs,  especially  the  fore  legs,  are  contorted,, 
crippled  in  appearance.  One  would  say  that  the  dog 
had  undergone  some  violent  strain  from  which  it 
had  not  entirely  recovered.  Its  head,  its  large  and 
drooping  ears,  its  short  hair,  are  almost  the  same  as 
the  hound's.  The  beagle  is  also  an  ardent  hunter, 
the  willing  companion  of  him  who,  gun  on  shoulder, 
tramps  over  the  rocky  hills  beloved  by  rabbits. 
With  its  short  and  twisted  legs  it  trots  rather  than 
runs;  but  its  slowness  is  more  deadly  to  its  victim 
than  speed,  for  it  allows  the  game  to  play  and  loiter 
in  seeming  security  before  it.  Without  suspecting 
the  approach  of  the  insidious  enemy  Jack  Babbit 
gambols  and  curls  his  mustache,  and  already  the 
beagle  is  face  to  face  with  him,  transfixing  him  with 
sudden  terror.  The  shot  is  fired:  all  is  over  with 
Jack,  who  leaps  into  the  air  and  falls  back  inert  on 
the  wild  thyme." 

"Poor  Jack,  so  treacherously  surprised!  Now 
the  hound  does  at  least  announce  itself  and  let  the 
rabbit  scamper  away  as  quick  as  it  can.  It  is  a  con- 
test of  speed  between  the  two.  But  the  dumpy 
beagle  creeps  through  the  bushes  and  pops  out  all  of 
a  sudden." 

'  '  The  beagle  has  not  its  equal  for  routing  out  the 
fox  from  its  hole.  Its  gait,  which  is  almost  a  crawl, 
enables  it  to  penetrate  the  farthest  corners  of  the 
fox's  abode.  If  it  finds  the  malodorous  animal 
there,  it  gives  voice  and  holds  the  place  with  tooth 
and  nail  while  allowing  the  hunters  time  to  break 
into  the  fox-hole  and  capture  the  chicken-stealer. 


200  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"The  wolf-dog  is  the  teamster's  favorite.  A 
thousand  times  you  have  seen  it,  petulant  and  wrath- 
ful, running  back  and  forth  on  the  top  of  a  loaded 
wagon  and  barking  from  the  top  of  this  fortress  at 
the  children  teasing  it  below.  It  is  superb  in  its 
anger,  with  its  little  leonine  mane,  its  plumy  tail 
tightly  rolled  in  a  corkscrew,  and  its  pretty  red  col- 
lar with  bells  and  fox-hair  fringe.  It  has  erect, 
pointed  ears  like  the  shepherd  dog's,  slender  muz- 
zle, hair  short  on  the  head  and  paws,  long  and  silky 
on  the  rest  of  the  body.  No  dog  knows  better  how 
to  curl  its  tail  and  hold  it  proudly. ' ' 

"Is  that  all  it  knows  how  to  do?"  asked  Louis. 

' '  The  wolf-dog  is  too  intelligent  not  to  have  other 
merit  than  its  pretty  ways.  Loubet  (that  is  com- 
monly its  name)  knows,  if  need  be,  how  to  turn  the 
spit  by  means  of  a  revolving  drum  in  which  it  jumps 
continually,  as  does  the  squirrel  in  its  rotary  cage. 
If  it  has  the  companionship  of  a  good  shepherd  dog, 
it  easily  learns  the  latter 's  calling  and  becomes  a 
pretty  good  flock-tender. ' ' 

"That  is  better  than  raging  on  the  top  of  a  wagon 
and  barking  at  the  passers-by,"  was  Louis's  com- 
ment. 

"I  do  not  know,"  resumed  Uncle  Paul,  "a  more 
repulsive,  brutal  physiognomy  than  that  of  the  bull- 
dog. Look  at  its  head,  massive  and  short,  with  thick 
muzzle  and  flat  nose,  sometimes  split ;  its  heavy  up- 
per lip  hanging  down  on  each  side  and  dripping  with 
saliva,  while  the  front  teeth  are  exposed  to  view; 
its  small  eyes,  with  their  hard  expression;  its  ears 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  201 

torn  by  bites  or  made  uglier  by  cropping; — think 
of  all  these  marks  of  a  brutal  nature  and  tell  me  for 
what  sort  of  occupation  the  bulldog  is  properly 
fitted." 

"Its  occupation,"  answered  Jules,  "is  read  in  its 
gross  physiognomy:  the  bulldog  is  made  for  fight- 
ing." 

"Yes,  my  friend;  for  fighting  and  nothing  else. 
Let  no  one  ask  it  to  watch  over  a  flock,  accompany 
the  hunter,  retrieve  the  fallen  game,  or  even  turn 
the  spit;  its  dull  intelligence  does  not  go  so  far  as 
that.  Its  one  gift  is  the  gift  of  the  jaw  that  snaps 
and  does  not  let  go ;  its  one  passion,  the  frenzy  of 
combat.  When  its  teeth  have  once  fastened  them- 
selves in  an  adversary's  flesh,  do  not  expect  them 
to  loosen  their  hold :  a  vice  is  not  more  tenacious  in 
its  grip.  Calls,  threats,  blows,  nothing  avails  to 
separate  two  bulldogs  fighting  each  other;  it  is  nec- 
essary to  seize  them  and  bite  them  hard  on  the  end 
of  the  tail.  The  sharp  pain  of  the  bite  can  alone  re- 
call them  from  the  fury  of  combat. ' ' 

"I  wouldn't  undertake  the  operation;  the  animal 
might  turn  against  the  one  trying  to  make  it  let 
go." 

"For  the  master  there  is  no  danger,  as  the  bull- 
dog is  strongly  attached  to  him.  Boldness, 
strength,  and  indomitable  tenacity  in  battle  make 
this  dog  an  efficient  protector  such  as  it  is  well  to 
have  at  one's  side  in  a  rough  encounter.  To  leave 
the  enemy  as  little  hold  as  possible,  it  is  the  custom 
to  crop  the  dog's  tail  and  ears;  furthermore,  the 


202  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

neck  is  protected  with  a  collar  studded  with  iron 
points. 

"This  pugnacious  breed  is  especially  in  favor  in 
England,  and  it  is  from  the  English  word  dog  that 
we  French  take  our  word  dogue,  in  the  sense  of 
'bulldog.'9 

"Then  dogue  means  dog?"  asked  Emile. 

"Nothing  else.  From  the  same  word  comes  the 
diminutive  doguin  (pug-dog),  by  which  we  designate 
that  little  growling,  scatter-brained  poltroon,  glut- 
ton and  good-for-nothing,  better  known  to  you  under 
the  name  of  carlin  (pug).  Like  the  bulldog,  it  has 
a  round  head,  short  and  flat-nosed  muzzle,  and  hang- 
ing lip ;  and  up  to  a  certain  point  it  has  also  the  bull- 
dog character,  which  it  shows  by  a  noisy  rage,  not 
having  the  size  or  strength  necessary  for  anything 
further. " 

"That  's  the  funny  little  dog  that  barks  at  me  in 
the  doorway  and  immediately  runs  in  if  I  pretend  to 
go  after  it. ' ' 

' '  The  Turkish  dog  is  another  useless  animal.  Its 
size  is  that  of  the  pug.  It  is  remarkable  for  its  al- 
most naked  skin,  oily-looking,  black,  or  dark  flesh- 
color,  and  spotted  with  brown  in  large  splashes.  It 
has  little  intelligence  and  no  attachment  to  its  mas- 
ter. Its  singular  nakedness,  which  in  our  climate 
makes  it  shiver  with  cold  a  good  part  of  the  year,  is 
its  only  merit,  if  it  be  a  merit.  I  should  rather  call 
it  a  very  disagreeable  infirmity.  Those  who  take 
pleasure  in  raising  these  poor  animals  clothe  them 
in  winter  with  a  cloth  coat." 


THE  CHIEF  BREEDS  OF  DOGS  203 

"A  dog  that  needed  a  tailor  to  furnish  it  with  a 
winter  costume  would  never  do  for  me,"  declared 
Emile.  ' '  I  'd  much  rather  have  Medor,  the  spaniel, 
and  Sheep,  the  barbet.  They  don't  shiver  when  it 
snows,  and  they  are  good  friends,  too." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  VARIOUS   USES  OF   DOGS 

rTl  0  guard  the  flock,  drive  away  the  wolf,  discover 
JL  game — those  are  the  dog's  great  functions; 
but  an  intelligent  dog  can  learn  to  do  a  thousand 
other  things.  I  have  just  shown  you4  Sheep*  leading 
the  blind  and  Loubet  turning  the  spit.  Traits 
abound  in  which  the  most  varied  aptitudes  are  re- 
vealed. For  example,  who  has  not  seen  or  at  least 
heard  of  the  errand  dog  faithfully  performing  its  ap- 
pointed tasks?  It  receives  a  basket  containing  a 
purse  and  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  are  written  the 
articles  desired.  It  may  be  it  is  to  fetch  tobacco  for 
the  master  or  get  the  day's  provisions  from  the 
butcher.  The  order  understood,  the-  animal  sets  out, 
basket  between  its  teeth.  It  reaches  the  butcher's 
door  quickly,  scratches  for  it  to  be  opened,  puts 
down  the  basket,  takes  out  the  purse,  presents  it,  and 
waits  until  served.  Sometimes  the  return  is  at- 
tended with  difficulties.  Comrades  are  met  with; 
attracted  by  the  smell,  they  desire  to  investigate  the 
basket's  contents.  'If  you  would  only  consent  to  it,' 
they  say,  'what  a  splendid  opportunity!  We  would 
divide  together.'  But,  without  slowing  up,  the  er- 
rand dog  raises  its  lips  a  little,  shows  its  teeth,  and 
growls:  *  Don't  bother  me,  you  good-for-nothings! 

204 


THE  VARIOUS  USES  OF  DOGS  205 

You  see  plainly  enough  this  is  for  my  master. '  And 
it  gravely  continues  on  its  way,  fully  prepared  to 
make  things  lively  for  the  miscreant  that  should  pre- 
sume to  poke  its  nose  into  the  basket.  Thanks  to 
its  haughty  bearing,  the  provisions  reach  home  with- 
out further  adventure.'' 

"The  dog  must  be  very  well  drilled  in  its  duty," 
commented  Louis,  "not  only  to  resist  temptation 
like  that,  but  also  to  refuse  to  listen  to  the  evil  coun- 
sels of  its  comrades. ' ' 

* l  And  it  never  occurs  to  it  to  stop  and  have  a  feast 
with  its  friends  when  it  is  carrying  a  pound  of  ten- 
der cutlets  I ' '  queried  Jules. 

"Never,  for  these  delicate  commissions  are  con- 
fided only  to  dogs  whose  temperance  has  been 
proved. ' ' 

"The  fable,"  Jules  remarked,  "says  somewhere: 

"Strange  thing1,  indeed:  to  dogs  is  temperance  taught, 
Which  man,  the  teacher,  ever  fails  to  learn. ' ' 

"Ah,  yes,  my  friend;  this  beautiful  virtue  of  tem- 
perance is  hard  enough  for  men  to  acquire.  I  know 
a  little  boy,  now,  that  was  sent  one  day  to  a  friend's 
house  with  a  basket  of  figs  or  pears,  and  he  could  n't 
help  tasting  the  fruit  on  the  way,  under  the  pretense 
of  seeing  whether  it  was  perfectly  ripe." 

Here  Emile  lowered  his  head  with  a,  confused  air 
and  scratched  his  nose,  apparently  recalling  some 
past  misdeed  of  this  sort  on  his  part.  But  his  uncle 
appeared  not  to  notice  him  and  continued  thus : 

"Now  let  us  talk  about  the  truffle-hunting  dog. 


206 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


To  any  of  you  that  may  not  know  it  already,  I  will 
first  say  that  the  truffle  is  a  sort  of  mushroom  always 
growing  beneath  the  soil,  more  or  less  deep,  never 
in  the  open  air.  In  shape  it  is  quite  different  from 

ordinary  mushrooms.  It  is 
round  and  plump,  varying  in 
size  from  that  of  a  walnut  to 
that  of  a  man's  fist,  has  a 
wrinkled  surface,  and  its 
flesh  is  black,  marbled  with 
white.  The  truffle  is  the 
best  liked  of  mushrooms,  es- 
pecially on  account  of  its 
Truffle  perfume. 

"To  discover  it  under  the  ground,  sometimes  sev- 
eral feet  deep,  sight  is  no  guide,  for  nothing  above 
reveals  the  presence  of  the  precious  tubercle.  Scent 
alone  will  do  the  work.  But  however  pronounced 
the  aroma  of  the  truffle  may  be,  it  is  not  strong 
enough  for  us  to  perceive  it  through  a  thick  layer  of 
earth ;  we  must  have  recourse  to  the  scent  of  an  ani- 
mal much  better  endowed  in  this  respect  than  we. 
The  aid  invoked  in  these  circumstances  is  frequently 
the  pig,  itself  very  fond  of  truffles  and  quick  to  dis- 
cover them,  guided  merely  by  their  odor.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  winter,  accordingly,  the  season  of  this 
mushroom's  maturity,  the  pig  is  taken  into  the 
woods.  Attracted  by  the  odor  that  exhales  from  the 
ground,  the  animal  digs  with  its  snout  wherever  the 
truffles  are  concealed.  But  if  allowed  to  finish  its 
work,  it  would  reach  the  tubercle,  which  would  im- 


THE  VARIOUS  USES  OF  DOGS  207 

mediately  disappear  in  its  gluttonous  maw.  So  the 
animal  is  drawn  off  at  the  right  moment,  while  as  a 
recompense  and  to  encourage  it  in  this  good  work  it 
has  a  chestnut  or  an  acorn  thrown  to  it  in  place  of 
the  mushroom,  and  then  the  digging  is  finished  with 
a  small  spade.  This  truffle-hunting  requires,  as  you 
see,  constant  watchfulness,  since  the  pig  might,  in  an 
unguarded  moment,  unearth  the  truffle  and  straight- 
way gobble  it  up.  A  grunt  of  satisfaction  might  an- 
nounce the  finding  of  the  edible,  morsel,  but  it  would 
be  too  late :  the  gluttonous  beast  would  already  have 
devoured  the  tidbit. 

"  Hence  the  dog  is  preferred  to  the  pig,  being 
more  active  than  the  latter,  more  docile,  of  keener 
scent,  and  seeking  the  truffles  only  for  its  master, 
with  no  selfish  motive  of  its  own.  It  is  marvelous 
to  see  it  at  work.  Nose  to  the  earth,  the  better  to 
catch  the  faint  emanation  from  underground,  it 
systematically  explores  the  places  that  seem  to  it 
the  most  promising,  such  as  copses  of  young  oaks 
and  thickets  of  brushwood.  It  scents  something. 
Good!  It  is  a  truffle.  With  much  tail-wagging  in 
evidence  of  its  joy  the  dog  burrows  a  little  with  its 
paw  to  indicate  the  place.  Man  continues  the  dig- 
ging with  an  iron  tool.  But  the  truffle  is  not  always 
unearthed  at  the  first  attempt;  the  search  involves 
uncertainties  and  the  following  of  false  leads.  'Let 
me  look  into  this  a  little  closer,'  says  the  dog  to  it- 
self. And  it  pokes  its  muzzle  into  the  very  bottom 
of  the  hole,  with  sniffings  that  powder  its  nose  with 
earth.  'It  is  this  way,  master,  to  the  left;  dig 


208  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

again.'  The  man  follows  this  advice  and  resumes 
operations ;  but  no  sign  of  a  truffle.  Fresh  sniffings 
at  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  'On  the  honor  of  a  dog, 
the  truffle  is  there,  and  a  fine  one.  This  way,  mas- 
ter, a  little  more  to  the  left.'  At  last  the  truffle  is 
found,  one  of  the  largest  of  the  gathering,  and  as  a 
reward  the  dog  gets  a  crust  of  bread. 

' l  The  pig  hunts  for  truffles  with  no  previous  edu- 
cation, since  it  is  its  nature  to  burrow  in  the  soil  for 
the  tubercles  and  roots  on  which  it  feeds ;  but  the  dog 
has  to  be  taught  the  business  so  foreign  to  its  own 
habits.  The  first  step  is  to  familiarize  it  with  the 
savor  of  the  truffle,  which  is  done  by  making  it  eat  a 
truffle  omelet." 

"A  truffle  omelet!"  exclaimed  Emile.  "That's 
a  dish  much  to  be  preferred  to  a  bone." 

"But  not  in  the  dog's  opinion,"  rejoined  his  uncle. 
"Without  showing  any  enthusiasm  for  this  food  that 
is  so  new  to  it,  the  dog  accepts  it  at  first  partly  as  an 
act  of  obedience,  then  begins  to  like  it,  and  finally 
would  ask  nothing  better  than  to  continue  the  diet 
for  a  long  time.  But  the  course  of  education  in  this 
dainty  is  of  short  duration,  ending  as  soon  as  the 
odor  to  be  remembered  becomes  familiar  to  the  dog. 
Then  a  truffle  is  hidden  in  the  ground,  at  first  not 
very  deep,  to-morrow  a  little  deeper,  arid  the  dog  is 
trained  in  finding  it.  A  caress,  a  piece  of  bread,  are 
its  recompense  each  time  it  does  well.  Such  lessons, 
appropriately  varied  and  repeated,  at  last  produce 
the  trained  truffle-hunter,  and  the  animal  is  then 
taken,  from  day  to  day,  into  the  woods  to  perfect 


THE  VARIOUS  USES  OF  DOGS     209 

itself  in  its  calling  by  actual  practice.  Of  course 
this  difficult  work  is  the  monopoly  of  dogs  having  the 
highest  degree  of  intelligence,  notably  the  water- 
spaniel.  ' ' 

1  i  That  's  the  one  sure  to  be  called  upon  wherever 
unusual  ability  is  needed, "  Jules  observed. 

"We  have  just  seen  the  dog  rival  the  pig,  even 
surpass  it,  in  the  art  of  unearthing  the  truffle.  Now 
I  will  show  him  to  you  taking  the  donkey's  place  as 
a  draft  animal.  An  enormous  dog  harnessed  to 
a  light  cart  is  not  a  rare  sight  in  towns,  where  butch- 
ers especially  make  use  of  this  singular  equipage  for 
the  transport  of  their  meat.  But  as  I  have  some- 
thing much  more  interesting  to  tell  you  I  will  not 
linger  over  this  example.  There  is  a  country  where 
the  dog  is  the  only  draft  animal,  a  country  where  it 
takes  the  horse's  place  for  carrying  the  master  on 
long  journeys.  That  country  is  Greenland." 

* '  Greenland  is  where  they  heat  water  in  a  leather 
bag  by  throwing  in  red-hot  stones?"  Jules  inter- 
posed. 

"And  where  they  lick  the  piece  of  meat  chosen  for 
the  distinguished  guest  1 9 '  added  Emile. 

"Yes,  Greenland  is  the  country." 

"It  must  be  a  sorry  sort  of  country." 

'  *  More  so  than  you  could  imagine.  In  Greenland, 
as  everywhere  else  near  the  Pole,  winter  with  its 
snows  and  ice  lasts  two  thirds  of  the  year,  and  the 
cold  is  intense.  Navigators  who  have  passed  the 
winter  in  that  bitter  climate  tell  us  that  wine,  beer, 
and  other  fermented  liquors  turn  to  solid  ice  in  their 


210  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

casks ;  that  a  glass  of  water  thrown  into  the  air  falls 
in  flakes  of  snow;  that  the  breath  from  the  lungs 
crystallizes  at  the  opening  of  the  nostrils  into  needles 
of  rime ;  and  that  the  beard,  stuck  to  the  clothing  by 
a  coating  of  ice,  cannot  be  detached  except  with 
scissors.  For  whole  months  at  a  time  the  sun  is 
not  once  seen  above  the  horizon  and  there  is  no  dif- 
ference between  day  and  night;  or  rather,  a  per- 
manent night  reigns,  the  same  at  midday  as  at  mid- 
night. However,  when  the  weather  is  clear,  the 
darkness  is  not  complete :  the  light  of  the  moon  and 
stars,  augmented  by  the  whiteness  of  the  snow,  pro- 
duces a  sort  of  wan  twilight,  sufficient  for  seeing. 

4  *  Squat  and  under-sized,  the  inhabitant  of  these 
rigorous  climes,  the  Eskimo,  divides  his  time  be- 
tween hunting  and  fishing.  The  first  furnishes  him 
with  skins  for  garments,  the  second  with  food. 
Dried  fish,  stored  up  in  a  half -rotten  condition,  and 
rancid  whale-oil,  viands  repugnant  to  us,  are  the 
dainties  familiar  to  his  famished  stomach.  He  de- 
pends also  on  his  fishing  for  fuel  to  feed  his  lamp, 
this  fuel  being  the  fat  of  the  seal,  and  for  materials 
with  which  to  make  his  sled,  which  is  fashioned  out 
of  large  fishbones.  Wood,  in  short,  is  unknown 
there,  no  tree,  however  hardy,  being  able  to  with- 
stand the  rigors  of  winter.  Willows  and  birches, 
dwarfed  to  the  size  of  mere  shrubs  trailing  on  the 
ground,  alone  venture  to  the  northern  extremities  of 
Lapland,  where  the  growing  of  barley,  the  hardiest 
of  cultivated  plants,  ceases.  Nearer  the  Pole  all 
woody  vegetation  ceases,  and  in  summer  only  a  few 


THE  VARIOUS  USES  OF  DOGS 

rare  tufts  of  grass  and  moss  are  to  be  seen  ripening 
their  seeds  hastily  in  the  sheltered  hollows  of  rocks. 
Still  farther  north  the  snow  and  ice  cannot  even  melt 
entirely  in  summer,  the  ground  is  never  visible,  and 
no  vegetation  at  all  is  possible." 

"And  there  are  people  who  give  the  dear  name  of 
home  to  those  terrible  countries  1 9 '  asked  Jules. 

"There  are  people,  the  Eskimos,  who  inhabit  them 
the  year  round,  in  winter  living  in  snow-huts,  in 
summer  under  tents  of  sealskin." 

1  '  They  build  houses  of  snow ! ' '     This  from  Emile. 

"Not  exactly  houses  like  ours,  but  huts  indeed  that 
afford  very  good  shelter.  Eegular  slabs  of  snow 
are  cut  and  piled  one  on  another  in  a  circular  wall 
capped  by  a  dome  of  the  same  material.  A  very 
low  entrance,  closed  with  skins,  is  left  facing  the 
south.  To  get  daylight,  they  cut  a  round  opening 
in  the  top  of  the  dome,  and  fill  it  with  a  sheet  of  ice 
instead  of  a  pane  of  glass.  Finally,  inside,  all 
around  the  wall,  a  bench  of  snow  is  built,  and  it  is 
covered  with  gravel,  heather,  and  reindeer-skins. 
This  bench  is  the  sleeping-place  for  the  family,  the 
skins  are  the  mattress,  and  the  snow  is  the  straw. 
In  these  dwellings  there  is  never  any  fire:  wood  is 
wanting  and,  besides,  with  fire  the  dwelling  would 
melt  and  come  dripping  down  lil^e  rain  on  the  in- 
mates." 

"That  's  so,"  said  Emile.  "Then  where  do  they 
make  the  fire  to  heat  the  stones  when  they  want  hot 
water?" 

"They  do  this  outside,  in  the  open  air." 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"And  with  what,  if  there  isn't  any  wood  in  the 
country  f ' ' 

"With  slices  of  whale's  fat  and  fishbones/' 

"They  must  freeze  in  those  snow  huts  with  no 
place  for  lighting  a  fire  f ' ' 

"No,  for  a  moss  wick  fed  with  seal  oil  burns  con- 
tinually in  a  little  earthen  pot  to  melt  snow  and 
give  drinking-water.  The  small  amount  of  heat 
thrown  out  suffices  to  maintain  an  endurable  tem- 
perature in  the  dwelling,  thanks  to  the  thickness  of 
the  snow  walls. " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  ESKIMO   DOG 

"T  71  THAT  I  have  just  told  you  will  make  it  plain 
V  V  enough  that  no  domestic  animal  dependent 
on  vegetable  food  can  be  kept  in  that  country. 
Where  could  one  find  a  supply  of  forage  for  the  ox, 
horse,  or  even  donkey,  when  the  ground  is  covered 
with  a  thick  layer  of  snow  the  greater  part  of  the 
year,  and  when  during  the  three  or  four  months  of 
summer  all  the  verdure  consists  of  meager  green- 
sward where  a  sheep  would  hardly  find  enough  herb- 
age to  browse!  Besides,  these  animals  would  suc- 
cumb to  the  severity  of  the  winter.  There  is  but  one 
species  of  this  sort  that  can  live  in  these  desolate  re- 
gions, and  that  is  the  reindeer,  which  is  about  as 
large  as  the  stag,  but  more  robust  and  more  thick- 
set. Its  horns,  or  antlers,  are  divided  each  into  two 
branches,  the  shorter  one  pointing  forward,  the 
other,  the  longer,  pointing  backward,  and  both  end- 
ing in  enlargements  that  spread  out  somewhat  like 
the  palm  and  fingers  of  an  open  hand. ' ' 

"According  to  your  description,"  observed  Louis, 
"the  reindeer  must  be  a  superb  animal  and  must 
need  plenty  of  food.  Where  does  it  find  pasturage 
when  everything  is  covered  with  snow?" 

"If  it  needed  the  forage  to  which  our  cattle  are 

213 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 


accustomed,  no  doubt  it  would  starve  to  death  the 
first  winter ;  but  it  is  content  with  a  kind  of  food  that 

none  of  our  animals 
would  touch.  It  is  a 
lichen,  white  in  color 
and  divided  into  a 
iliK  multitude  of  branches, 
close  together  and  pre- 
senting the  appearance 
of  a  little  bush  a  few 
inches  high.  It  grows 
on  the  ground,  which  it 
Reindeer  entirely  covers  for  im- 

mense stretches.  During  the  winter  the  reindeer 
scratch  the  snow  with  their  fore  hoofs  and  uncover 
the  coarse  plant,  softened  by  moisture ;  and  this  plant 
they  browse.  Thus  it  is  that  interminable  fields  of 
snow,  the  desolate  abodes  of  famine,  supply  never- 
theless sufficient  pasturage  for  these  animals.  This 
lichen,  last  vegetable  resource  of  the  extreme  north, 
is  called  reindeer  moss,  and  is  found  everywhere, 
in  the  most  arid  lands,  between  the  poles  and  the 
equator.  Among  the  underbrush  of  our  most  bar- 
ren hills  you  will  find  it  in  abundance,  fresh  and  sup- 
ple in  winter,  dried  up  and  crackling  under  the  feet 
in  summer." 

t  '  The  reindeer  ought  to  live  in  our  country,"  Jules 
remarked,  " since  there  is  lichen  for  it  to  feed  on." 
"The  climate  is  much  too  warm  for  it.     Hardly 
would  it  be  able  to  endure  the  mildness  of  our  win- 
ters ;  and  how  about  the  heat  of  our  summers  ?    It 


THE  ESKIMO  DOG  215 

needs  the  snows  and  the  harsh  climate  of  the  polar 
regions,  away-from  which  it  rapidly  dies  out. 

"In  Lapland  the  reindeer  is  a  domestic  animal. 
There  it  fills  the  place  of  our  cattle  and  serves  at 
one  and  the  same  time  as  cow,  sheep,  and  horse. 
The  Laplander  lives  on  reindeer  milk  and  its  prod- 
ucts, and  on  the  animal's  flesh.  He  clothes  himself 
with  its  warm  fur,  and  makes  a  very  soft  leather  out 
of  its  skin.  When  the  ground  is  covered  with  snow, 
he  harnesses  the  reindeer  to  his  sled  and  travels  as 
many  as  thirty  leagues  a  day,  his  swift  equipage 
with  its  broad  runners  gliding  over  the  snow  and 
hardly  leaving  a  trace  behind. 

' i  The  reindeer  is  not  rare  in  Greenland,  but  there 
it  lives  in  the  wild  state,  for  the  Eskimo,  much  less 
civilized  than  the  Laplander,  has  not  yet  learned  how 
to  win  it  to  his  uses  and  accustom  it  to  domestic  life. 
It  runs  at  large  and  merely  furnishes  the  game  on 
which  the  Greenlanders  count  to  vary  somewhat 
their  diet  of  fish.  For  domestic  animals,  then,  what 
is  there  left  to  the  Eskimo,  since  the  only  species 
able  to  live  in  that  land  of  snow  huts,  the  reindeer, 
is,  in  that  desolate  region,  a  wild  animal  approached 
by  the  hunter  only  with  ruse  and  caution?  There 
remains  the  dog,  the  faithful  companion  which, 
thanks  to  its  kind  of  food,  can  accompany  man  every- 
where, even  on  his  most  daring  expeditions  toward 
one  or  other  of  the  poles.  Where  the  reindeer  would 
have  to  pause,  lichen  failing  or  being  covered  with 
too  thick  a  layer  of  snow,  the  dog  continues  to  go 
forward,  since  for  food  it  needs  only  a  fishbone,  and 


216  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  neighboring  sea  furnishes  fish  in  plenty.  The 
dog  is  the  Eskimo's  all,  in  the  way  of  domestic  ani- 
mals." 

"That  all  is  very  little,"  said  Jules. 

"Very  little,  certainly;  but  still  without  the  dog 
the  Eskimo  could  not  live  in  his  gloomy  country. 
With  the  help  of  the  dog  he  chases  the  wild  reindeer, 
the  flesh  of  which  gives  him  food,  and  the  skin  fur- 
nishing for  his  hut ;  on  the  ice  he  attacks  the  white 
bear,  whose  fur  will  become  a  warm  winter  cloak ;  he 
makes  himself  master  of  the  seal  which  will  give 
him  its  intestines  for  ropes  and  its  oily  fat  for  fuel 
to  feed  his  ever-burning  lamp.  In  fact,  the  dog  is 
to  him  not  only  a  hunting  companion,  but  also  a 
draft  animal  able  to  transport  him  at  a  good  rate 
of  speed  whithersoever  he  wishes  to  go. 

"The  Eskimo  dog  is  about  the  size  of  our  shep- 
herd dog,  but  more  robust  in  build.  It  has  upstand- 
ing ears,  tail  coiled  in  a  circle,  hair  thick  and  woolly, 
as  it  should  be  to  resist  the  atrocious  cold  of  the 
country  it  inhabits.  No  domestic  species  leads  a 
harder  life.  At  long  intervals  a  meat-bone  or  a 
large  fishbone  for  food,  and  nothing  more;  no 'shel- 
ter except  the  hole  it  may  dig  for  itself  in  the  snow; 
cuffs  much  of tener  than  caresses ;  after  the  fatigues 
of  the*  chase  the  still  more  exhausting  labor  of  draw- 
ing the  sled — such  is  its  life  of  hardship.  Harsh 
treatment  and  constant  hunger  are  not  conducive 
to  gentleness  of  disposition.  So  the  Eskimo  dogs 
are  quarrelsome  among  themselves,  surly  toward 
man,  always  ready  to  show  their  teeth,  and  espe- 


THE  ESKIMO  DOG  217 

cially  disposed  to  attack  their  victuals  with  voracity. 
Nowhere  in  the  world  are  there  more  audacious  pil- 
lagers :  so  extreme  are  the  pangs  of  hunger  that  no 
punishment  avails  to  prevent  their  snapping  up  any 
morsel  unguardedly  left  within  their  reach. " 

"Not  the  most  docile  sort  of  companion,  I  should 
say,"  Jules  remarked. 

"The  women,  who  treat  them  more  gently,  feed 
them,  and  take  care  of  them  when  they  are  little, 
can  easily  make  them  obey.  Nearly  always,  even 
when  these  poor  animals  suffer  most  cruelly  from 
hunger,  the  women  succeed  in  getting  them  together 
to  be  harnessed  to  the  sled." 

"I  should  like,  Uncle,"  put  in  Emile,  "before 
hearing  the  rest,  to  know  just  what  an  Eskimo  sled 
is.  I  can't  imagine  exactly  what  it  is  like." 

"The  sled,  as  its  name  indicates,  is  a  kind  of  light 
vehicle  without  wheels,  designed  for  dragging  over 
the  ice  or  snow  where  sliding  is  easy.  The  Eskimo 
sled  is  rudely  built.  Imagine  two  strips  of  wood 
curving  upward  at  each  end  and  placed  side  by  side 
at  a  certain  distance  from  each  other.  They  are  the 
chief  pieces,  which  are  to  support  all  the  rest  and 
themselves  glide  on  the  snow.  Between  the  two  is 
constructed  a  framework  of  light  transverse  bars, 
and  on  this  framework  rises  a  sort  of  niche  lined 
with  furs,  where  the  traveler  squ'ats.  That  is  the 
Eskimo  sled. 

"The  two  chief  pieces,  resembling  long  skates 
gliding  over  the  hard  snow,  I  said  were  of  wood; 
but  I  hasten  to  add  that  generally  they  are  made  of 


218  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

other  material,  as  wood  is  one  of  the  rarest  things 
in  this  country  where  there  is  not  enough  vegeta- 
tion to  furnish  even  a  broomstick.  All  the  wood  in 
use  is  washed  ashore  by  the  sea,  from  far  countries, 
at  the  time  of  heavy  storms.  So  the  Eskimo  has  not 
always  at  his  disposal  the  two  narrow  strips  neces- 
sary. He  uses  instead  two  long  whalebones,  chosen 
for  their  shape  and  curvature.  If  bones  are  lacking 
there  remains  one  last  resort.  With  the  intestines 
of  the  seal  or  thongs  of  skin  he  ties  large  fish  in  two 
bundles,  makes  them  of  the  desired  shape,  and  ex- 
poses them  to  the  frost,  which  hardens  them  like 
stone  until  summer  comes  again.  Those  are  the  two 
runners,  the  two  chief  pieces  of  the  sled." 

i '  What  a  queer  country,  where  the  people  use  bun- 
dles of  frozen  fish  for  runners ! "  Emile  could  not  but 
exclaim. 

"But  the  runner  has  not  yet  played  out  its  part. 
After  it  has  slidden  all  winter  over  the  snowy  plain, 
it  thaws  out  with  the  return  of  warm  weather  and 
the  fish  composing  it  are  popped  into  the  bag  of 
boiling  water  to  cook. ' ' 

"The  people  eat  them?" 

"Why,  certainly,  my  friend;  they  eat  the  frame- 
work of  the  demolished  sled." 

"Once  more,  I  say,  if  ever  those  people  invite  me 
to  dinner  I  shall  decline.  I  shouldn't  relish  their 
licking  the  food  to  clean  it,  nor  should  I  care  for  fish 
that  had  been  dragged  about  for  months,  nobody 
knows  where." 

"Now  that  you  know  about  the  sled,  let  us  speak 


THE  ESKIMO  DOG  219 

of  the  team.  The  dog's  harness  is  composed  of  two 
thongs  of  reindeer  skin,  one  going  round  the  neck, 
the  other  round  the  breast,  and  both  connected  by 
a  third  thong  passing  between  the  fore  legs.  To 
this  harness,  near  the  shoulders,  are  attached  two 
long  leather  straps  which  are  fastened  to  the  sled 
at  the  other  end.  The  dog  team  numbers  from 
twelve  to  fifteen.  One  dog,  the  most  intelligent  and 
with  the  keenest  scent,  goes  along  at  the  head  of  the 
pack ;  the  others  follow,  several  abreast,  the  novices 
nearest  to  the  sled.  Seated  in  the  niche  of  his  ve- 
hicle, one  leg  out  this  way,  one  the  other,  feet  almost 
skimming  the  snow,  the  Eskimo  drives  his  equipage 
with  an  enormously  long  whip,  for  this  whip  must  be 
able  to  reach  the  farthest  dog,  seven  or  eight  meters 
from  the  sled.  But  he  refrains  as  much  as  possible 
from  using  it,  since  a  lash  from  the  whip  is  more 
likely  to  promote  disorder  than  to  increase  the 
speed.  The  dog  struck,  not  knowing  whence  the 
blow  came,  lays  the  blame  on  its  neighbor  and  bites 
it ;  the  latter  passes  the  compliment  along  to  another, 
which  in  turn  hastens  to  worry  the  next;  and  in  a 
moment,  spreading  through  the  pack,  the  rough-and- 
tumble  fight  becomes  general.  Then  it  is  a  task  in- 
deed to  restore  peace  and  get  the  broken  or  tangled 
harness  straightened  out. 

' '  Hence  the  whip  is  but  rarely  called  into  service 
to  correct  a  too  unruly  dog,  and  it  is  chiefly  with  the 
voice  that  the  driver  guides  his  team.  The  leading 
dog  is  particularly  attentive  to  the  master's  word: 
he  turns  to  the  right,  left,  or  goes  straight  ahead, 


220  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

increases  or  slackens  speed,  and  the  others  govern 
themselves  accordingly.  Every  time  an  order  is 
given,  the  leader  turns  its  head  without  stopping 
and  looks  at  the  master,  as  if  to  say,  'I  understand/ 
If  the  route  has  been  already  traveled  the  driver  has 
nothing  to  do :  the  leader  follows  the  trail  even  when 
it  is  invisible  to  man.  In  black  darkness,  in  the 
midst  of  violent  snow-squalls,  aided  by  its  sense  of 
smell  and  its  astonishing  sagacity,  it  continues  to 
guide  the  rest  of  the  team,  and  very  seldom  goes 
astray. 

"In  a  single  day  150  Kilometers  are  thus  made. 
If  fatigue  calls  a  halt,  the  Eskimo  builds  himself  a 
shelter  with  snow  piled  up  for  walls  and  a  large  slab 
of  ice  for  roof.  Here  he  disposes  himself  as  best  he 
can  for  sleeping,  after  a  frugal  lunch  of  salt  fish  or 
flesh,  thawed  by  the  heat  of  a  lamp.  On  awakening, 
a  signal  is  given  and  immediately  all  about  the  hut 
little  mounds  of  snow  move  and  shake  themselves. 
They  are  the  dog-team,  which  has  slept  outside,  cov- 
ered by  the  falling  snow.  The  Eskimo  doles  out  to 
them  a  meager  pittance,  which  is  instantly  swal- 
lowed, and  without  delay  he  harnesses  the  sled  to 
resumejiis  journey  in  quest  of  the  white  bear  or  the 
reindeer  on  which  he  has  set  his  heart. " 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

THE   DOG  OF    MONTARGIS 

THE  dog  is  much  attached  to  its  master;  if  it 
loses  him  it  remembers  him  for  a  long  time. 
I  am  going  to  give  you  an  example  so  striking  that  it 
has  been  recorded  in  history. 

1  '  In  the  year  1371  there  lived  at  the  court  of  King 
Charles  V  a  nobleman,  the  Chevalier  Macaire,  who, 
envious  of  the  favor  one  of  his  companions,  Aubry 
de  Montdidier,  enjoyed  with  the  king,  one  day  came 
upon  his  rival  by  surprise,  when  the  latter  was  ac- 
companied only  by  his  dog,  in  a  deserted  corner  of 
the  forest  of  Montargis.  Finding  the  occasion  op- 
portune for  gratifying  his  odious  rancor,  he  sud- 
denly threw  himself  upon  Aubry,  killed  him,  and 
buried  his  body  in  the  forest.  The  ill  deed  accom- 
plished, he  returned  to  court,  where  he  bore  himself 
as  if  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  had  occurred. ' ' 

"Oh,  the  hateful  wretch !"  cried  Jules. 

"In  the  meantime  the  dog  couched  on  its  master's 
grave,  where  night  and  day  it  -howled  with  grief. 
When  the  pangs  of  hunger  pressed  too  hard  it  re- 
turned to  Paris,  scratched  at  the  door  of  its  master's 
friends,  hastily  ate  what  was  given  it,  and  immedi- 
ately went  back  to  the  wood  to  lie  down  again  on  the 
grave.  Seeing  it  thus  come  and  go  alone,  always 

221 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

oppressed  with  care  and  manifesting  by  doleful 
barks  some  deep  grief,  people  followed  it  into  the 
forest,  watched  its  actions,  and  saw  that  it  stopped 
on  a  mound  of  freshly  turned  earth,  where  its  lamen- 
tations became  still  more  plaintive. ' ' 

"No  doubt  they  dug  and  the  crime  was  disco v- 
eredl" 

"Struck  with  the  fresh  mound  of  earth  and  the 
dog's  howls  -at  this  spot,  they  dug  and  found  the 
dead  man,  to  whom  a  more  honorable  burial  was 
then  given ;  but  there  was  nothing  to  make  them  sus- 
pect the  author  of  the  murder." 

"And  what  became  of  the  dog?"  asked  Emile. 

"After  having  thus  apprized  Aubry's  friends  and 
relatives  that  its  master  had  been  miserably  assas- 
sinated, there  remained  a  more  difficult  task  for  it  to 
accomplish ;  namely,  to  expose  the  murderer.  A  rel- 
ative of  the  dead  man  had  adopted  the  dog  and  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking  the  animal  out  with  him  when 
he  wrent  to  walk.  One  day  the  dog  chanced  to  spy 
the  assassin,  Macaire,  in  company  with  other  gentle- 
men. To  leap  at  his  throat  for  the  purpose  of  biting 
and  strangling  him,  was  the  affair  of  an  instant. ' ' 

"Bravo!  Good  dog!  Strangle  the  rascal!" 
cried  Emile  in  great  excitement. 

"You  are  going  too  fast,  my  friend,"  his  uncle 
remonstrated.  "No  one  as  yet  suspected  that  Ma- 
caire was  the  author  of  the  horrible  crime.  They 
draw  off  the  dog,  beat  it,  and  drive  it  away.  The 
animal  keeps  returning  in  a  rage,  and  as  it  is  not 
allowed  to  come  near  it  struggles,  barks  from  a 


THE  DOG  OF  MONTARGIS 

distance,  and  directs  its  threats  toward  the  quarter 
where  Macaire  has  disappeared. 

"This  performance  is  repeated  again  and  again, 
and  on  each  occasion  the  dog,  perfectly  gentle  to- 
ward every  other  person,  is  seized  with  violent  rage 
at  the  sight  of  the  murderer  and  recommences  its 
assaults.  It  is  against  Macaire  alone  that  it  nurses 
a  grudge  which  neither  threats  nor  blows  can  ap- 
pease. Such  is  the  creature's  fury  that  finally  the 
query  arises  whether  the  dog  may  not  be  actuated 
by  a  desire  to  avenge  the  death  of  its  first  master." 

"Ha!  now  we  are  coming  to  it.  Suspicion  is 
aroused. ' ' 

' '  They  speak  to  the  king  about  the  affair ;  they  tell 
him  that  a  nobleman  of  his  court  was  found  buried, 
victim  of  an  unknown  assassin;  they  further  inform 
him  that  the  dead  man's  dog,  with  indomitable  per- 
sistence, springs  at  the  Chevalier  Macaire  every 
time  it  sees  him.  The  king  has  the  suspected  person 
brought  before  him  and  orders  him  to  remain  hid- 
den in  the  midst  of  a  throng  of  other  bystanders. 
Then  the  dog  is  brought  in.  Its  sense  of  smell  im- 
mediately warns  it  of  the  presence  of  the  murderer. 
With  its  accustomed  fury  it  spots  its  victim  in  the 
crowd  and  springs  at  him.  As  if  reassured  by  the 
king's  presence,  it  attacks  with  more  boldness  than 
ever,  and  by  its  plaintive  barks  seems  to  ask  that 
justice  be  done  it.  There  is  hasty  intervention, 
without  which  Macaire  would  be  devoured  by  the 
animal. ' ' 

"And  it  would  have  served  him  right." 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Wait:  punishment  will  come.  The  dog's 
strange  conduct,  together  with  other  suspicious  cir- 
cumstances, had  made  an  impression  on  the  king. 
Some  days  later  Charles  V  had  Macaire  appear  be- 
fore him  and  pressed  him  by  his  questions  to  confess 
the  truth.  What  foundation  was  there  for  the  sus- 
picions current  in  regard  to  him?  How  explain, 
if  he  were  not  guilty,  the  dog's  repeated  attacks  and 
furious  barking  at  sight  of  him?  Seized  with  the 
fear  of  a  shameful  punishment,  Macaire  obstinately 
denied  the  crime. 

"  Ait  this  epoch,  characterized  by  manners  and  cus- 
toms little  above  barbarism,  when  the  accuser 
affirmed  and  the  accused  denied,  with  no  sufficient 
proof  on  either  side,  it  was  customary  to  decide  the 
question  by  a  mortal  combat  between  the  two.  The 
one  that  succumbed  was  held  to  be  in  the  wrong.'7 

"But  to  be  the  weaker  proves  nothing  against 
right, "  objected  Jules.  "One  might  be  a  thousand 
times  right  and  yet  be  beaten  by  one's  adversary." 

' t  That  is  undeniably  true,  and  I  hope  you  will  from 
day  to  day  become  more  firmly  convinced  of  this 
noble  truth.  In  our  lamentable  age — you  will  learn 
this  later,  my  friend — in  our  lamentable  age  it  is  a 
current  maxim,  a  maxim  of  savagery,  that  might 
makes  right!  In  the  days  of  Charles  V,  rude  as 
that  period  was,  no  one  would  have  dared  to  say 
such  a  horrible  thing;  but  nevertheless,  under  the 
influence  of  superstition,  men  really  believed  that 
the  vanquished  was  in  the  wrong,  because,  they 
maintained,  right  can  never  succumb,  upheld  as  it 


THE  DOG  OF  MONTARGIS 

is  by  God.  Therefore  a  judicial  combat  was  called 
a  judgment  of  God.  Alas,  alas,  my  friend,  how  far 
they  were  from  sanity  of  mind!  How  far  from  it 
we  ourselves  are,  with  our  duel,  relic  of  ancient 
barbarism!  What  does  a  well-directed  shot  prove 
in  favor  of  him  who  pulled  the  trigger?  Nothing, 
unless  it  be  that  he  is  more  adept  in  the  use  of  fire- 
arms than  his  adversary,  or  that  chance  has  been  on 
his  side.  Thus  it  is,  however,  that  men  decide  dis- 
putes involving  our  most  precious  possession,  honor. 

' '  The  king,  then,  ordered  the  affair  to  be  brought 
to  an  end  and  the  truth  determined  by  a  combat  be- 
tween the  man  and  the  dog.  A  large  field  was  laid 
out  with  seats  for  the  king,  all  his  court,  and  a  nu- 
merous company  besides.  In  the  middle  of  the  field 
were  the  two  champions — the  man  with  a  large  and 
heavy  stick,  the  dog  with  the  weapons  that  nature 
had  given  it,  and  with  nothing  but  a  leaky  cask  for 
a  refuge  and  a  sally-port." 

"This  cask  was  to  serve  it  as  shelter  against  the 
blows  of  the  stick?"  asked  Emile. 

1  '  It  was  the  citadel  where,  if  the  attack  became  too 
pressing,  it  could  take  refuge  in  order  to  escape  the 
cudgel's  blows.  But  the  brave  animal  did  not  once 
make  use  of  it.  As  soon  as  it  was  let  loose  it  rushed 
at  Macaire.  But  the  noblemaiL's  stick  was  big 
enough  to  fell  his  adversary  with  a  single  blow;  so 
the  dog  began  to  run  this  way  and  that  around  the 
man  to  avoid  the  crushing  descent  of  the  club. 
Then,  seizing  its  opportunity,  with  one  bound  it 
jumped  at  its  enemy's  throat  and  gripped  it  so 


226  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

firmly  as  to  throw  Macaire  over  backward.  Half 
strangled,  lie  cried  for  pity  and  begged  to  be  freed 
from  the  animal,  promising  to  confess  everything. 
The  guards  drew  off  the  dog  and,  the  judges  ap- 
proaching by  royal  command,  Macaire  confessed  his 
crime  to  them." 

"And  the  assassin  got  off  with  nothing  but  a  bite 
from  the  dog?" 

"Macaire  was  hanged  like  the  scoundrel  that  he 
was. ' ' 

"That  time,  at  least,  might  decided  right,"  Jules 
declared  with  much  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HYDROPHOBIA  * 

F  all  the  ferocious  animals  that  you  know,  at 
least  by  hearsay,  which  one  would  you  most 
dread  to  meet!"  asked  Uncle  Paul.  Emile  was  the 
first  to  reply. 

"For  my  part,"  said  he,  "if  I  went  nutting  in  the 
woods  I  shouldn't  at  all  like  to  meet  a  wolf,  even  if 
I  had  a  stout  stick  with  me." 

"If  I  should  meet  a  wolf,"  Jules  declared,  "I 
would  just  climb  a  tree  and  make  fun  of  Mr.  Wolf, 
for  he  does  n't  know  how  to  climb.  But  I  should 
be  more  afraid  of  a  bear,  for  that  can  climb  trees 
better  than  we,  and  it  hugs  a  man  till  it  stifles  him. ' ' 

"As  for  me,"  said  Louis,  "the  animal  I  should 
fear  most  would  be  the  tiger;  they  say  it  is  so  fero- 
cious. With  a  bound  it  springs  on  a  man  as  the  cat 
pounces  on  a  mouse." 

"The  wolf  is  a  coward,"  Uncle  Paul  assured  his 
hearers.  "Just  threaten  it  in  a  loud  voice,  throw 
a  stone  or  two  at  it,  or  shake  a  stick,  and  you  put  it 
to  flight.  Nevertheless,  if  it  were  pressed  with  hun- 
ger, it  would  take  courage  and  one  might  pass  a  very 
bad  quarter  of  an  hour  in  its  company.  The  bear 

i  This  was  written  before  the  days  of  inoculation  as  a  preventive 
of  hydrophobia. — Translator. 

227 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

is  more  dangerous.  With  it,  retreat  up  a  tree  is  of 
no  avail,  and  precipitous  flight  has  not  much  chance 
of  success,  for  the  bear  is  very  nimble.  What  a  ter- 
rible fate  to  find  oneself  held  tight  in  a  horrible 

embrace,  and  to 
feel  the  beast 's 
warm  breath  on 
one's  face!  With 
the  tiger  it  would 
be  worse.  Let  its 
claws  once  get 
hold  of  a  man,  let 
its  jaws  once  close 
on  him,  and  he 
is  torn  to  pieces. 
There  is  nothing 
so  terrible  as  its 
sudden  attack  and 
its  bloodthirsty 
ferocity. ' ' 
Tiger  "That  's  the  an- 

imal most  to  be  feared,  as  I  said,"  Louis  declared, 
"if  it  were  found  in  our  country.  But  luckily  there 
are  no  tigers  here." 

"We  have  no  tigers  in  our  woods,"  assented 
Uncle  Paul,  "but  we  have  in  our  very  midst  an  ani- 
mal that  is  still  more  formidable  in  certain  circum- 
stances. This  terrible  enemy  that  we  are  liable  to 
encounter  at  any  moment  does  not  possess  by  a  good 
deal  the  strength  of  the  tiger  or  bear;  most  often  it 
is  not  even  so  strong  as  the  wolf;  sometimes  it  is  so 


HYDROPHOBIA  229 

feeble  that  a  well-directed  blow  of  the  fist  is  enough 
to  knock  it  down.  Its  nature  is  not  sanguinary;  its 
teeth  and  claws  are  not  strong  enough  to  frighten 
us." 

"Well,  then,''  Emile  demanded,  "why  is  this  en- 
emy so  much  to  be  f eared  T' 

"Do  not  let  this  lack  of  strength  reassure  you. 
As  for  me,  I  shudder  at  the  mere  thought  of  the 
danger  to  which  we  are  exposed.  Against  those 
other  animals,  however  dangerous  or  strong  they 
may  be,  defense  is  possible.  With  presence  of  mind 
and  with  weapons  one  may  come  out  of  the  fight  vic- 
torious ;  if  one  is  injured  by  teeth  or  claws  the  wound 
may  heal.  But  against  this  other  creature  presence 
of  mind,  skill,  courage,  weapons,  help — all  are  use- 
less; let  it  bite  you  only  once,  let  the  point  of  its 
tooth  merely  tear  the  skin  so  as  to  draw  blood,  mak- 
ing no  more  than  a  scratch,  and  it  will  suffice  to  en- 
danger your  very  life.  Better  would  it  be  to  find 
yourself  in  the  wolf 's  jaws  or  the  bear's  embrace. 
Vainly  you  get  the  upper  hand  and  ward  off  the 
animal's  assaults>  vainly  you  kill  it:  a  tiny  scratch, 
insignificant  enough  from  any  other  animal,  will  in 
the  near  future  cause  your  death,  a  horrible  death, 
more  atrocious  than  any  other  in  the  world.  As  a 
result  of  that  tiny  wound  a  day,  will  come,  and  it 
will  come  soon,  when,  seized  all  at  once  with  a  furi- 
ous madness,  shaken  by  horrible  convulsions,  froth- 
ing with  drivel,  and  not  recognizing  either  relatives 
or  friends,  you  will  spring  upon  them  like  a  fero- 
cious beast,  to  bite  them  savagely  and  give  them 


230  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

your  disease.  No  hope  of  restoring  you  to  health, 
no  way  to  alleviate  your  sufferings;  you  must  be 
left  to  die,  an  object  of  horror  and  pity." 

"What  is  that  formidable  animal?"  Jules  in- 
quired. "Are  we  really  ever  likely  to  have  a  tussle 
with  it?" 

"We  are  daily  exposed  to  this  danger.  No  one 
is  certain  of  not  being  attacked  this  very  day,  this 
very  instant;  for  the  terrible  animal  frequents  our 
public  places,  wanders  in  our  streets,  makes  our 
houses  its  home,  and  lives  in  close  intimacy  with  us. 
In  fact,  it  is  no  other  than  the  dog." 

"The  dog,  the  most  useful  and  most  devoted  of 
our  servants!"  exclaimed  Jules  incredulously. 

' l  Yes,  the  dog.  In  proportion  as  it  merits  our  at- 
tachment under  usual  conditions,  so  does  it  become 
the  object  of  our  just  fear  when  seized  with  a  malady 
called  hydrophobia." 

"They  say,  and  I  Ve  often  heard  it,  that  mad 
dogs  are  very  dangerous,"  remarked  Louis.  "How 
do  they  get  this  disease?" 

"Its  origin  is  unknown.  Without  any  discover- 
able cause,  from  no  motive  that  we  can  discern,  the 
dog  goes  mad;  the  malady  is  spontaneous;  that  is 
to  say,  it  makes  its  appearance  unheralded  by  symp- 
toms. Any  dog  may  be  attacked,  the  contented  pet 
in  a  fine  house  as  well  as  the  poor  homeless  waif  that 
hunts  for  a  scrap  in  the  sweepings  at  the  street  cor- 
ner. I  must  add,  however,  that  the  sufferings  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  with  bad  treatment,  tend  to  pro- 
mote the  disease,  stray  dogs  being  more  subject  than 


HYDROPHOBIA  231 

others  to  spontaneous  madness.  Here  we  have  a 
new  and  very  weighty  reason  why  we  should  take 
good  care  of  our  dogs.  To  let  them  suffer  cruelly 
is  to  expose  them  to  the  inroads  of  a  horrible  ail- 
ment that  may  perhaps  be  our  own  destruction. 

1  '  'Spontaneous  madness  once  developed  in  a  dog, 
the  malady,  unless  precautions  are  taken,  is  propa- 
gated in  others  with  frightful  rapidity.  Ten  dogs, 
a  hundred  dogs,  can  in  a  short  time  themselves  be- 
come mad.  An  animal  attacked  with  rabies  is,  in 
short,  tormented  with  an  irresistible  desire  to  bite 
others.  Wild-eyed,  tail  between  its  legs,  hair  erect, 
lip  frothing,  it  springs  with  lowered  head  on  the  first 
dog  it  meets,  bites  it,  and  immediately  springs  at 
another,  then  another,  as  many  as  it  comes  across. 
Now,  every  dog  bitten  becomes  itself  mad  in  a  few 
days,  some  sooner,  some  later,  and  propagates  the 
evil  in  the  same  way  unless  energetic  measures  cut 
this  scourge  short. 

"The  disease  is  communicated  to  man  also  by  the 
bite.  A  mad  dog  bites  animals  and  human  beings 
without  distinction;  it  springs  furiously  at  passers- 
by,  and  even  springs  at  its  master,  whom  it  no 
longer  recognizes.  If  the  tooth,  moistened  with  sa- 
liva, pierces  the  skin  so  as  to  draw  blood,  it  is  all 
over  with  the  victim:  hydrophobia  has  been  com- 
municated. " 

"It  is  the  same  here,  then,  as  with  the  viper's 
venom?"  asked  Jules. 

"Exactly  the  same.  From  the  mad  dog's  mouth 
runs  a  deadly  saliva,  a  real  venom  which,  mingling 


232  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

with,  the  -blood  through  an  open  wound,  causes  mad- 
ness at  the  end  of  a  certain  time.  On  unbroken 
skin  this  saliva  has  no  effect;  but  on  the  slightest 
bleeding  scratch  it  operates  in  its  peculiarly  terrible 
fashion.  In  short,  like  other  venoms,  the  saliva  of 
rabies,  as  it  is  called,  must  infiltrate  into  the  blood 
in  order  to  act. 

4  i  This  shows  you  that  the  bite  is  less  dangerous 
if  made  through  clothing,  especially  thick  clothing. 
The  fabric  can  wipe  the  dog's  teeth  on  the  way  and 
retain  the  venomous  saliva;  it  can  even  arrest  some- 
what the  action  of  the  jaws  and  prevent  the  animal's 
teeth  from  going  in  so  far.  If  there  is  but  a  slight 
wound  that  fails  to  draw  blood,  the  saliva  has  not 
penetrated  and  there  is  no  danger. 

"The  conditions  necessary  for  the  development  of 
rabies,  namely  the  mingling  of  the  dog's  saliva  with 
our  blood  and  its  introduction  into  our  veins,  should 
always  be  in  our  minds  if  we  wish  to  avoid  a  danger 
that  threatens  us  even  in  the  midst  of  seeming  se- 
curity. It  is  to  be  noted  that  in  the  first  stage  of 
the  disease  the  dog  is  more  demonstrative  in  its 
affection  than  usual:  the  poor  beast  seems  to  wish 
once  more  to  lavish  its  tokens  of  attachment  on  those 
it  loves,  before  abandoning  itself  to  the  transports 
of  fury  that  will  soon  be  beyond  its  control.  Let 
us  suppose  that  at  this  moment  you  have  a  slight 
wound  on  your  hand,  and  the  dog  comes,  docile  and 
fawning,  and  lovingly  licks  the  little  wound.  Its 
tongue  mixes  the  saliva  with  your  blood ;  the  terrible 
venom  infiltrates  into  your  veins.  Fatal  caress! 


HYDROPHOBIA  233 

Babies  and  all  its  horrors  perhaps  will  be  the  con- 
sequence. Take  this  as  a  warning:  never  allow  a 
dog,  however  reassuring  its  demeanor  may  be,  to 
lick  you  on  a  place  where  the  skin  is  broken.  No 
one  can  affirm  with  certainty  that  the  atrocious 
malady  is  not  already  developing  in  the  animal,  and 
you  might  fall  a  victim  to  your  excess  of  confidence. 

"Hydrophobia  shows  itself  in  man  usually  in 
from  thirty  to  forty  days  after  the  bite.  It  begins 
with  headache,  deep  depression,  continued  uneasi- 
ness, troubled  sleep,  and  bad  dreams;  then  come 
convulsions  and  delirium.  The  face  expresses  great 
terror;  the  lips  turn  blue  and  are  covered  with  foam; 
the  throat  contracts  so  as  to  render  swallowing  im- 
possible. The  sight  of  liquids  inspires  the  patient 
with  insurmountable  aversion,  and  a  drop  of  water 
placed  in  the  mouth  would  produce  frightful  stran- 
gulation. Then  come  fits  of  madness  during  which 
the  patient  struggles  furiously  to  bite  and  rend  the 
one  who  is  taking  care  of  him.  The  disease  has 
changed  him  to  a  wild  beast.  At  last  death  comes 
and  puts  an  end  to  this  horrible  agony. " 

"Then  there  is  no  remedy  for  hydrophobia .?" 
asked  Jules. 

"Medicine  as  yet  knows  absolutely  none.  All  it 
can  do  is  to  let  the  sufferer  die — banishing  forever 
the  execrable  notions  that  formerly  prevailed,  and 
perhaps  still  do  at  present.  To  get  rid  of  the 
incurable  and  dangerous  patient  it  was  necessary, 
they  said,  to  smother  him  between  two  mattresses. 
Whoever  should  to-day  commit  such  a.  barbarous  act 


234  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

would  be  pursued  by  justice  and  punished  as  a 
murderer." 

"  Formerly  they  smothered  the  patient  between 
two  mattresses,  now  they  let  him  die — no  great  ad- 
vance," observed  Louis. 

"Pardon,  my  friend;  it  is  no  small  advance  to 
have  banished  forever  from  the  sick-bed  the  sense- 
less brutalities  of  ignorance,  pending  the  day,  which 
will  come,  I  hope,  when  science  shall  gain  the  upper 
hand  of  the  terrible  disease. 

"Hydrophobia,  when  it  has  once  set  in,  cannot, 
I  say,  so  far  as  we  know,  be  cured;  but  at  least,  by 
means  of  certain  precautions,  we  can  anticipate  it 
and  prevent  the  mad  dog's  bite  from  leading  to  fatal 
results.  The  saliva  of  rabies  acts  in  poisoning  the 
blood  precisely  as  does  the  venom  of  dangerous  ser- 
pents. The  precautions  to  be  taken  are  then,  in  both 
cases,  about  the  same :  the  saliva  must  be  prevented 
from  entering  the  veins ;  it  must  be  destroyed  in  the 
wound.  To  this  end  it  is  customary  to  bind  the 
bitten  part  above  the  wound,  so  as  to  arrest  the  cir- 
culation ;  then  the  torn  flesh  is  made  to  bleed  and  is 
afterward  washed  in  order  to  remove  as  much  as 
possible  of  the  venomous  humor ;  finally,  and  as  soon 
as  may  be,  the  wound  is  cauterized  with  iron  heated 
white-hot. ' ' 

"Oh,  what  a  frightful  remedy!"  cried  Emile. 
"Is  there  no  other?" 

"It  is  the  only  one,  and  it  must  be  applied  with 
the  least  delay  possible,  and  boldly.  Life  is  at  stake. 
These  precautions  taken,  especially  the  cauteriza- 


HYDROPHOBIA  235 

tion,  one  can  feel  some  reassurance  that  the  malady 
will  not  make  its  appearance.  Of  course  the  opera- 
tion would  succeed  better  in  a  doctor 's  hands,  which 
are  more  experienced  than  ours ;  but  if  his  help  can- 
not be  got  at  once,  let  us  proceed  without  him,  for 
here  promptitude  offers  the  best  chance  of  success. ' ' 

"I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  that  white-hot  iron 
making  the  wound  sizzle, "  said  Jules.  "All  the 
same  I  would  submit  to  being  burned  in  order  to 
escape  the  most  terrible  of  fates." 

"If  there  's  no  other  way,  I  would  submit,  too," 
Emile  declared.  "But  still  I  say,  plague  take  dogs 
for  making  us  have  to  endure  the  hot  iron  if  we  wish 
to  escape  something  worse.  Can't  they  keep  these 
animals  from  going  mad?" 

"To  prevent  all  outbreaks  of  rabies  is  not  in  our 
power,  but  it  rests  with  us  to  make  mad  dogs  scarce 
enough  not  to  cause  us  too  much  anxiety.  When  this 
malady  threatens,  notably  in  the  heat  of  midsum- 
mer, police  regulations  require  the  muzzling  of  all 
dogs  permitted  to  go  from  home.  Furthermore, 
little  poisoned  balls  are  scattered  in  the  street  to  get 
rid  of  stray  dogs.  To  these  measures  of  the  police 
we  ought  to  add  our  own  watchfulness;  we  ought 
always  to  have  an  eye  on  our  dogs,  if  we  have  any, 
for,  living  with  us  as  they  do,  they  will  be  the  first 
to  expose  us  to  danger.  It  is  most  important,  then, 
for  us  to  know  by  what  signs  incipient  rabies  can  be 
detected.  That  is  what  I  am  going  to  teach  you 
according  to  the  masters  who  have  made  a  thorough 
study  of  this  grave  subject. 


236  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"  First  of  all,  I  will  refute  two  erroneous  assump- 
tions that  are  widely  held  and  that  might  become 
fatal  by  imparting  a  false  security.  It  is  generally 
believed  that  a  mad  dog  is  always  in  a  state  of  fury. 
That  this  frenzied  condition  shows  itself  when  the 
disease  is  at  its  height,  is  very  true;  but  also  noth- 
ing is  more  utterly  false  as  to  the  first  stages  of  the 
malady.  Far  from  being  seized  with  attacks  of 
fury,  the  dog  just  beginning  to  be  infected  shows, 
on  the  contrary,  an  excess  of  affectionate  feelings: 
by  multiplied  caresses  it  seems  to  beg  of  man  some 
sort  of  help  against  the  vague  terrors  with  which  it 
is  tormented.  Secondly,  it  is  popularly  maintained 
that  a  mad  dog  does  not  drink  and  manifests  a 
great  horror  of  water,  and  that  no  dog  seen  in  the 
act  of  drinking  can  be  mad.  This  notion  is  so 
deeply  rooted  in  most  minds  that,  to  designate 
rabies  there  has  been  formed,  from  two  Greek 
words,  the  special  term,  hydrophobia,  signifying 
horror  of  water.  Well,  my  friends,  never  forget 
this:  no  matter  what  the  Greek  term  says,  a  mad 
dog  drinks  very  well;  it  drinks  greedily  every  time 
it  has  the  chance,  without  manifesting  any  aversion 
whatever  toward  the  water.  Later,  when  the  ani- 
mal is  near  its  end,  the  throat  contracts  and  swal- 
lowing becomes  impossible.  Then,  and  not  till  then, 
the  dog  shuns  drink  with  horror.  Therefore,  far 
from  reassuring  us,  it  is  on  the  contrary  an  added 
cause  for  alarm  when  we  see  a  dog  becoming  more 
affectionate  than  usual  and  drinking  with  unaccus- 
tomed avidity. 


HYDROPHOBIA  237 

"It  is  in  restlessness  and  agitation  without  ap- 
parent cause  that  the  first  signs  of  the  inroads  of 
rabies  manifest  themselves.  The  dog  cannot  stay 
in  one  place,  it  goes  without  any  object  from  one 
spot  to  another,  and  retires  to  a  corner  where  it 
turns  round  without  being  able  to  find  a  position 
that  suits  it.  Its  look  expresses  gloom  and  sadness. 
It  seems  obsessed  by  a  fixed  idea  from  which  the  call 
of  a  loved  voice  may  draw  it  for  a  moment;  then 
it  relapses  into  sadness. 

"Food  is  not  yet  refused.  On  the  contrary,  the 
dog  pounces  gluttonously  on  the  food  set  before  it; 
sometimes  its  depraved  appetite  is  such  that  it  even 
devours  substances  having  no  nutriment,  such  as 
wood,  straw,  and  anything  found  in  its  way,  even 
its  own  excrement.  Water  is  drunk  with  the  same 
avidity.  As  soon  as  this  unreasonable  agitation, 
this  deep  sadness,  this  excess  of  affection,  and  this 
depraved  appetite  show  themselves,  the  dog  should 
be  suspected  of  rabies ;  prudence  demands  that  it  be 
chained  and  closely  watched. 

1 '  Suspicion  becomes  complete  certainty  if  the  ani- 
mal from  time  to  time  utters  a  peculiar  and  quite 
characteristic  cry,  which  is  called  the  mad-dog  howl. 
In  the  midst  of  one  of  these  attacks  of  lugubrious 
sadness,  all  at  once  the  dog  springs  with  a  bound  at 
an  imaginary  enemy.  Then,  muzzle  uplifted,  it 
gives  an  ordinary  bark  that  ends  bruskly  and  pe- 
culiarly in  a  piercing  howl.  At  this  discordant 
sound  one  might  be  reminded  of  the  manner  in 
which  roosters  sometimes  crow,  at  least  so  far  as 


238  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  extremely  hoarse  and  cracked  tone  is  con- 
cerned." 

"  A  dog  often  howls  for  want  of  something  else  to 
do,  when  it  is  shut  up,"  remarked  Louis.  "That 
would  not  be  a  sign  of  madness?" 

"No,  my  friend.  Ordinary  howling  denotes  a 
passing  feeling  of  gloom,  ennui,  fright ;  and  this  cry 
cannot  be  confounded  with  the  veritable  howl  of 
rabies,  the  characteristics  of  which  are  very  differ- 
ent. This  latter  begins  with  a  perfect  bark  and  sud- 
denly passes  into  a  sharp  and  prolonged  howl  com- 
parable to  the  cock's  crow. 

"As  long  as  the  furious  madness  that  will  end  the 
progress  of  the  malady  is  not  declared,  the  animal 
is  harmless ;  but  it  is  unnecessary,  it  would  even  be 
dangerous,  to  wait  so  long.  If  the  peculiar  howl  of 
rabies  is  heard,  doubt  is  no  longer  possible :  the  dog 
is  unquestionably  mad.  For  our  safety  and  also  to 
spare  the  poor  animal  the  tortures  awaiting  it,  the 
dog  should  be  killed  at  once.  In  the  animal's  inter- 
est as  well  as  our  own,  it  is  a  kind  action." 

"Poor  dog!"  murmured  Jules.  "The  master 
gives  it  a  last  look  of  regret,  and,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  lodges  a  ball  in  its  head." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    CAT 

HE  cat  entered  our  household  long  after  the 
dog;  nevertheless  its  domestication  took  place 
very  early.  The  East,  whence  we  received  it, 
has  possessed  it  from  time  immemorial.  Ancient 
Egypt,  the  old  land  of  the  Pharaohs,  has  transmitted 
to  us  the  most  curious  documents  on  this  subject. 

"In  that  country,  celebrated  for  its  profound  ven- 
eration for  domestic  animals,  honors  almost  divine 
were  said  to  the  ox,  dog,  cat,  and  many  other  crea- 
tures. Nearer  the  primitive  ages  than  we,  and  still 
remembering  the  miseries  from  which  the  domestic 
animals  had  freed  man,  the  Egyptians  no  doubt 
showed  their  gratitude  by  these  honors,  which  seem 
to  us  to-day  the  height  of  superstition.  The  ox, 
turning  up  the  farmer's  soil  with  the  plow,  was  ac- 
corded the  highest  position.  A  magnificent  white 
bull,  called  the  bull  Apis,  was  kept  at  the  expense  of 
the  State  in  a  sumptuous  temple  of  granite  and 
marble,  and  cared  for  by  a  retinue  of  attendants 
who  approached  it  with  reverence,  wearing  rich  cos- 
tumes of  ceremony,  swinging  the  censer,  and,  in 
short,  observing  all  the  forms  of  deep  venera- 
tion." 

239 


240  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Just  to  change  the  straw  and  fill  the  rack  with 
hay,  they  went  censer  in  hand  and  with  bent  knees  I" 
Emile  asked  with  incredulity. 

"Yes,  my  friend." 

"Then  times  are  greatly  changed  for  the  ox. 
Nowadays  the  ox-tender  lets  the  animal  go  disgrace- 
fully dirty  with  dung  and  lie  on  a  miserly  allowance 
of  straw;  and  he  is  n't  at  all  sparing  of  the  goad  to 
quicken  the  ox's  pace." 

"On  great  fete-days,  when  the  bull  Apis  went  out 
escorted  by  its  retinue  of  servants,  the  crowd  pros- 
trated itself  to  the  ground  along  the  way,  with  fore- 
heads in  the  dust.  At  its  death,  mourning  was  gen- 
eral throughout  Egypt.  An  im- 
mense granite  coffin,  master- 
piece of  art  and  patience,  the 
work  of  a  thousand  artisans,  re- 
ceived the  sacred  remains,  which 
Mummy  of  the  Buii  Apis  were  then  placed  in  a  sepulchral 
chamber  hollowed  out  in  the  heart  of  a  mountain 
and  sumptuously  adorned  with  the  finest  examples 
of  sculpture  and  painting." 

"And  did  other  domestic  animals  receive  like 
honors  1 ' r  asked  Jules. 

"All  were  honored,  but  none  so  signally  as  the 
ox.  In  regard  to  the  cat,  for  instance,  it  was  deemed 
sufficient  to  embalm  it  with  aromatics  after  its 
death,  swathe  it  in  bands  of  fine  linen,  and  place  the 
body  thus  prepared  in  a  chest  of  sweet-scented 
wood  adorned  with  gildings,  paintings,  and  inscrip- 
tions. These  chests  were  then  arranged  on  shelves 


THE  CAT  241 

in  the  niches  of  a  sepulchral  chamber  excavated  to  a 
great  depth  in  the  solid  rock. 

"In  some  of  these  chambers,  with  decorations  as 
fresh  as  if  made  yesterday,  we  find  to-day,  after  the 
lapse  of  three  and  four  thousand  years,  a  pro- 
digious number  of  bodies  of  cats  and  other  ani- 
mals, sufficiently  preserved  to  be  recognized,  thanks 
to  the  aromatic  bitumen  with  which  they  were 
impregnated.  Well,  the  examination  of  these  old 
relics  conveys  information  on  one  point  of  great  in- 
terest: it  shows  us  that  the  domestic  animals  of 
those  remote  times  did  not  differ  from  those  of  our 
own  day.  As  were  the  ox,  dog,  cat,  four  thousand 
years  ago,  such  they  are  to-day. 

"The  cat — since  it  is  the  cat  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about  to-day — the  cat  in  particular  is  like  ours 
in  every  way.  The  rat-hunter  of  forty  centuries 
ago  differs  in  nothing  from  our  tom-cat.  But 
where  did  it  come  from,  so  long,  long  ago,  in  the 
houses  of  the  Egyptians?  Of  what  country  was  it  a 
native  1 

"To  the  south  of  Egypt  lies  Abyssinia,  where  we 
have  already  found  the  wild  dog,  from  which  proba- 
bly came  our  greyhound.  There,  too,  is  still  found, 
sometimes  wild  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  sometimes 
domesticated,  a  kind  of  cat,  called  the  gloved  cat, 
that  presents  a  striking  resemblance  to  our  domestic 
variety.  It  is  generally  agreed  that  this  is  the  par- 
ent stock  of  our  cats,  though  perhaps  only  in  part, 
since  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  a  second  species, 
Asiatic  according  to  all  appearance,  has  a  place  in 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  pedigree  of  our  domestic  cat  as  we  now  know  it. 
Briefly,  the  cat  came  to  us  from  Eastern  Africa. 

"In  the  old  forests  of  Europe,  and  notably  in 
those  of  the  east  of  France,  there  is  found,  in  no 
great  numbers,  a  kind  of  cat  called  the  wildcat,  but 
which  cannot  be  regarded  as  the  progenitor  of  the 
domestic  cat,  in  spite  of  current  opinion  to  the  con- 
trary. Fitted  iby  nature  for  violent  exercise,  for 
fighting  and  tree-climbing,  and  for  making  long 
leaps,  it  has  longer  and  stronger  legs  than  the  com- 
mon cat,  a  larger  head,  and  more  powerful  jaws. 
The  tail,  very  furry  and  variegated  with  black  rings, 
is  more  expanded  at  the  end  than  at  the  base.  The 
coat  is  a  warm  fur  of  yellowish  gray  with  large  black 
stripes,  transverse  and  encircling  the  body,  thus  imi- 
tating a  little  the  tiger's  coat.  A  dark  band  extends 
the  entire  length  of  the  spine  from  the  nape  of  the 
neck  to  the  tail.  Finally,  the  fleshy  balls  of  the 
soles  of  the  feet,  and  also  the  lips  and  nose,  are 
black. 

"The  domestic  cat,  on  the  contrary,  generally  has 
red  lips  as  well  as  nose  and  balls  of  the  feet.  It 
also  has  on  the  front  of  the  neck  and  breast  a  band 
of  light  color  sometimes  extending  under  the  stom- 
ach. Similar  coloring  of  nose,  lips,  feet,  and  front 
of  the  neck  is  found,  in  exact  detail,  in  the  wild  spe- 
cies of  Abyssinia  or  the  gloved  cat ;  and  that  is  one 
of  the  reasons  for  regarding  this  species  as  the 
source,  or  at  least  as  one  of  the  sources,  of  the  do- 
mestic cat." 

"But  I  have  often  seen  domestic  cats  with  black 


THE  CAT 

lips,"    objected    Louis.     " Where    do    they    come 

from!" 

'  '  They  are  apparently  in  some  way  related  to  the 
wildcats  of  our  woods.  The  female  cats  of  isolated 
dwellings  near  our  large  forests  sometimes  mate 
with  wildcats,  it  is  said.  The  young  of  these  par- 
ents bear  inscribed  on  the  nose  and  lips  their  pa- 
ternal origin,  and  transmit  these  family  traits  to 
their  descendants.  But  if  this  crossing  gives  new 
vigor  to  our  cat,  it  is  far  from  improving  its  dis- 
position. The  wildcat  of  our  woods  is  in  fact  an 
intractable  animal,  unruly  despite  all  the  care  we 
bestow  upon  it.  It  is  an  implacable  destroyer  of 
game  and,  if  chance  offers,  a  more  formidable  rav- 
ager  of  the  hen-roost  than  the  fox. 

"It  is  believed  that  one  of  our  domestic  varieties, 
known  as  the  tiger-cat,  counts  this  bandit  among  its 
ancestors;  at  any  rate,  it  has  the  wildcat's  black 
lips  and  zebra  coat.  It  also  has  its  disposition  to 
a  certain  degree.  The  tiger-cat  is  the  least  tame 
of  all,  the  most  distrustful,  the  most  inclined  to 
plunder.  No  other  is  so  ready  with  its  claws  if  you 
try  to  take  hold  of  it  or  merely  stroke  it  on  the  back. 
But  these  peculiarities  of  savagery  ought  not  to 
make  us  forget  its  good  qualities :  there  is  no  more 
spirited  hunter  of  mice.  It  is  true  that  cheese  for- 
gotten on  the  table  and  game  hung  too  low  in  the 
kitchen  attract  its  attention  a  little  too  readily. 

"I  much  prefer  the  Spfanis-h  or  tortoise-shell  cat, 
which  is  more  civilized,  of  gentler  disposition,  and 
not  less;  adept  at  catching  mice.  It  is  in  this  variety, 


244  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

one  of  the  most  widely  diffused,  that  the  original 
feline  characteristics  are  the  best  preserved,  that  is 
to  say  those  of  the  gloved  cat  of  Abyssinia.  The 
Spanish  cat  has  rather  short  and  brightly  colored 
fur,  the  balls  of  the  feet,  the  lips,  and  the  nose  red, 
the  front  of  the  neck  light-colored.  Its  coat  is  gen- 
erally spotted  with  irregular  patches  of  pure  white, 
black,  and  bright  red.  But,  singularly  enough,  the 
three  colors  are  never  found  united  except  in  the 
female;  the  male  is  limited  to  two  colors  at  most, 
generally  white  and  red." 

"Then  every  cat  with  three  colors  to  its  fur  is  a 
she-cat?"  asked  Jules. 

"So  far  I  have  met  with  no  exception  to  this 
strange  rule." 

"It  is  very  queer,  that  unequal  division  of  colors 
— three  for  the  Tabby  and  only  two  at  most  for  the 
Tom-cat.  Other  animals  show  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"The  Angora  cat  forms  a  third  variety.  It  is  a 
magnificent  animal,  of  majestic  carriage,  with  silky 
and  very  long  hair,  especially  around  the  neck,  un- 
der the  stomach,  and  on  the  tail.  But  its  qualities 
do  not  equal  the  fineness  of  its  fur.  The  Angora  is 
the  friend  of  sweet  idleness,  fond  of  prolonged 
siestas  in  drawing-room  arm-chairs.  Do  not  try  to 
make  it  watch  patiently  for  a  mouse  in  the  garret. 
Pampered  by  its  mistress,  assured  of  its  saucer  of 
milk,  it  finds  the  business  of  hunting  too  arduous. 
Repose  and  caresses  and  a  soft  bed  are  its  lot.  That 
is  all  I  have  to  say  about  this  lazy-bones. 

"Let  us  pass  on  to  the  cat's  weapons,  its  teeth 


THE  CAT  245 

and  claws.  In  telling  you  the  story  of  the  Auxil- 
iaries I  pointed  out  to  you  the  arrangement  of  the 
cat's  teeth,  so  admirably  adapted  for  coping  with 
live  prey.  I  will  refresh  your  memory  on  this  sub- 
ject by  showing 
you  a  sketch  of 
these  teeth.  How 
well  formed  for 
cutting  flesh  are 
those  molars,  with 
their  sharp  points 
that  play  one  Cat>s  ScuU  Showing  Teeth 

against  another  like  the  blades  of  a  pair  of  scissors ! 
And  those  canine  teeth,  so  long  and  sharp — aren't 
they  veritable  daggers  for  the  cat  to  stab  the  mouse 
with  ?  How  horribly  they  must  pierce  the  poor  little 
victim's  body!  A  mere  glance  at  this  set  of  teeth  is 
enough  to  assure  one  that  it  belongs  to  a  fierce  hunter. 

"It  is  by  surprise  and  stealth  that  the  cat  seizes 
its  prey.  Hence  it  must  have  special  foot-gear  to 
render  its  approach  noiseless,  to  deaden  completely 
the  sound  of  its  footsteps.  And  that  reminds  me  of 
something.  When  you  were  younger,  you  were  told 
the  wonderful  exploits  of  Puss-in-Boots,  how  Puss 
caught  partridges  and  offered  them  to  the  king,  as 
a  gift  from  the  cat's  master,  the  future  Marquis  of 
Carabas. ' ' 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Emile,  "I  remember.  The  art- 
ful creature,  with  a  grain  of  wheat  in  its  paw  and  the 
bag  open,  lay  in  wait  for  the  partridges  in  a  furrow. 
What  astounding  success  we  credited  it  with!  The 


246  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

giddy  partridges  and  innocent  quails,  and  foolish 
young  rabbits  ran  helter-skelter  into  the  bag.  Ac- 
cording to  us,  the  game  of  the  entire  canton  was 
bagged.  One  day  the  cat  defied  the  ogre  to  take  the 
form  of  every  kind  of  animal  in  turn,  as  he  pretended 
he  had  the  power  to  do.  The  stupid  ogre  hastened 
to  change  himself  into  a  lion  first,  then  into  a  mouse. 
But  in  a  half  a  jiffy  out  shoot  the  cat's  claws,  the 
mouse  is  caught,  and  the  ogre  is  gobbled  up. 
Thenceforth  the  castle  belongs  to  the  miller's  son, 
who  has  become  the  Marquis  of  Carabas,  as  true  as 
can  be.  Then  the  wedding  is  celebrated  with  great 
magnificence.  Isn't  that  the  way  it  goes,  Uncle?" 

" Precisely;  only  I  must  say  to  you  that  I  object 
to  the  boots  in  that  performance.  How,  with  such 
foot-gear  thumping  and  creaking  on  the  gravel  in 
the  road,  can  the  cat  approach  the  game  without  be- 
ing heard?" 

4  *  That 's  so.  Let  us  take  off  the  boots.  "We  will 
suppose  the  cat  leaves  them  at  the  mill  while  it  is 
out  hunting,  and  that  it  only  wears  them  on  great 


occasions." 


"How  much  wiser  the  real  cat  is  than  the  one  in 
the  story!  It  would  not  wear  noisy  boots  and  run 
the  risk  of  making  the  garret  floor  creak  under  its 
footsteps.  If  the  mouse  heard  the  slightest  sound 
of  hard  soles,  it  would  never  come  out  of  its  hole. 
What  the  cat  really  needs  is  slippers  and  not  boots 
or  wooden  shoes — slippers  thick  and  soft  so  as  to 
muffle  the  footfall  completely. 

"Let  us  examine  the  underside  of  the  cat's  paw. 


THE  CAT 

You  will  see  under  each  toe  a  little  ball  of  flesh,  a 
real  cushion  softly  stuffed.  Another  ball,  much 
larger,  occupies  the  center.  In  addition,  tufts  of 
down  fill  up  the  intervening  spaces.  Thus  shod,  the 
cat  walks  as  if  on  tow  or  wadding,  and  no  ear  can 
hear  it  coming.  Have  we  not  there,  I  ask  you,  slip- 
pers of  silence,  marvelously  adapted  to  surprise  at- 
tacks!" 

"It  is  a  fact,"  assented  Louis,  "that  we  never 
hear  the  cat  coming." 

"The  dog,  too,"  added  Jules,  "has  similar  little 
cushions,  only  larger,  under  its  paws.  Neverthe- 
less we  hear  its  footsteps,  perhaps  on  account  of  the 
claws  scraping  the  ground  a  little." 

"Your  i perhaps'  is  superfluous,"  his  uncle  re- 
joined. "It  is  certainly  the  claws  scraping  the 
ground  that  make  the  dog's  walk  heard  in  spite  of 
the  fleshy  balls." 

"How  does  the  cat  manage,  then?"  asked  Jules. 
"It  has  claws  and  very  strong  ones." 

"That  is  the  cat's  secret.  When  walking  and 
sleeping  it  keeps  its  claws  drawn  back  in  a  sheath 
at  the  extremity  of  the  toes ;  it  has  then  what  we  call 
velvet  paws.  Thus  drawn  into  their  case,  the  claws 
do  not  project  beyond  the  paw  and  cannot  strike  the 
ground.  To  this  first  advantage  of  not  making  any 
noise  in  walking  is  added  another  not  less  useful  to 
the  cat.  Completely  hidden  inside  their  sheaths,  the 
claws  do  not  get  blunt;  they  preserve  their  sharp- 
ness and  fine  point  for  the  attack.  They  are  excel- 
lent weapons,  and  the  animal  keeps  them  in  a  case 


248  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

until  they  are  needed.  Then  the  claws  shoot  out  of 
their  sheaths  as  if  pushed  by  a  spring,  and  the  vel- 
vet paw  of  a  moment  ago  becomes  a  horrible  harpoon 
that  implants  itself  in  the  flesh  and  rends  the  prey 
in  most  sanguinary  fashion." 

"If  I  give  the  cat's  paw  a  little  squeeze  with  my 
fingers/'  said  Emile,  "the  claws  come  out  of  their 
sheaths;  if  I  stop  squeezing,  the  claws  go  in 
again." 

' i  That  is  just  what  the  cat  can  do  at  will.  Let  us 
examine  this  curious  mechanism  more  closely.  The 
little  terminal  bone  of  the  toes,  the  one  that  bears 
the  claw,  is  fastened  to  the  preceding  little  bone  by 
an  elastic  ligament,  the  effect  of  which,  in  a  state  of 
repose,  is  to  raise  the  first  bone  and  rest  it  on  top 
of  the  second.  Suppose  that  the  tips  of  your  fingers 
had  play  enough  to  fold  back :  there  you  have  an  ex- 
act representation  of  the  process.  In  this  position 
of  the  terminal  bone  the  claw  is  held 
upright,  half  sunk  in  a  fold  of  the  skin 
and  hidden  under  the  thick  fur  of  the 
paw." 

"I  understand,"  said  Jules;  "then 
it  is  a  velvet  paw;  the  claws  are  in 
their  sheaths." 

"Promptly,  at  the  call  to  arms,  the 
cat  has  but  to  will  it,  and  its  claws 
spring  out.  Look  at  this  picture  of  a 
cat's  paw  and  notice  what  appears  to 

Cat's  Claws  and 

Tendons          be  a  network  of  cords.     Those  are  the 
tendons  which,  whenever  the  animal  so  desires,  are 


THE  CAT  249 

puled  by  the  muscles  situated  higher  up.  They  are 
fastened  each  to  the  lower  side  of  one  of  the  terminal 
bones  of  the  toes.  Pulled  by  its  tendon,  this  termi- 
nal bone  pivots,  as  if  on  a  hinge,  on  the  extremity  of 
the  preceding  bone,  and  gets  in  a  straight  line  with 
it.  At  the  same  time  the  pointed  end  of  the  claw 
comes  out  of  the  paw." 

"Then  the  cat's  claws  are  worked  by  cords  and 
pulleys!"  exclaimed  Emile.  "It  is  enough  to  be- 
wilder one,  it  is  so  complicated.  But  I  understand 
it  in  the  main.  To  make  velvet  paws  the  cat  does  n't 
have  to  do  anything  at  all;  the  claws  go  in  of  their 
own  accord  and  stay  in  their  sheaths;  and  if  they 
have  to  be  drawn  out,  the  cords  or  tendons  give  a 
pull,  and  the  thing  is  done." 

"To  be  shod  with  soft  slippers  which  both  admit 
of  a  noiseless  approach  to  the  hunted  prey  and  can, 
on  the  instant,  change  into  terrible  weapons  of  at- 
tack, is  not  alone  sufficient  for  the  hunter's  success; 
he  must  also  have  eyes  to  guide  him  in  the  darkness 
of  midnight,  the  hour  most  favorable  for  an  ambus- 
cade. In  this  respect  the  cat  is  admirably  equipped. 
Its  eyes  are  formed  for  receiving  more  or  less  light 
as  may  be  necessary  for  seeing. 

"Notice  a  cat  in  the  sun.  You  will  see  the  pupil 
of  the  eyes  reduced  to  a  narrow,  slit  resembling  a 
black  line.  Not  to  be  dazzled  by  too  great  light,  the 
animal  has  closed  the  passage  to  the  rays  of  light; 
it  has  closed  the  pupil  while  leaving  the  eyes  wide 
open.  Take  the  cat  into  the  shade :  the  slit  of  the 
eyes  will  enlarge  and  become  an  oval.  Put  it  in  a 


250  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

semi-dark  place:  the  oval  opening  will  dilate  to  a 
circle  and  this  circle  will  grow  larger  as  the  light 
diminishes. 

"Thanks  to  these  pupils,  which  open  very  wide 
and  can  thus  still  manage  to  receive  a  little  light 
where  for  others  it  would  be  pitch-dark,  the  cat 
guides  itself  in  the  dark  and  hunts  at  night  even 
better  than  in  broad  daylight,  since  it  remains  in- 
visible to  the  mice  while  it  can  see  them  well  enough. 
Nevertheless,  if  there  were  no  light,  if  the  darkness 
were  absolute,  the  cat  could  not  see  anything.  In 
this  connection,  recall  what  we  were  saying  a  while 
ago  about  nocturnal  birds  of  prey.  Some  maintain 
that  a  cat  sees  distinctly  in  complete  darkness;  I 
have  shown  you,  on  the  contrary,  that  for  every  ani- 
mal without  exception  sight  becomes  impossible  as 
soon  as  there  ceases  to  be  even  the  faintest  ray  of 
light. " 

"The  cat  cannot  see  without  some  light,  I  have  n't 
the  slightest  doubt,"  assented  Jules.  "But  all  the 
same  I  have  known  it  to  hunt  in  places  where  not  a 
glimmer  of  light  could  get  in." 

"Then  its  mustaches  served  to  guide  it;  these  are 
frequently  made  use  of  by  the  cat  when  it  cannot 
see." 

"Mustaches!"  Emile  exclaimed.  "Oh,  what  a 
queer  guide!  And  how  can  those  long  hairs  that 
stand  out  on  its  lip  tell  it  where  it  is  1 " 

"Perhaps  you  think  the  cat  wears  mustaches  sim- 
ply as  a  bit  of  swagger.  Undeceive  yourself:  they 
are  a  valuable  item  of  its  equipment  for  hunting  by 


THE  CAT  251 

night.  With  them  it  feels  the  ground,  gets  its  bear- 
ings, explores  nooks  and  corners.  Let  a  mouse  so 
much  as  graze  one  of  those  long  hairs  sticking  out 
in  all  directions,  and  that  is  enough  to  warn  the  cat. 
Immediately  the  jaw  snaps  and  the  claw  seizes. 
Moral :  never  cut  a  cat 's  mustaches ;  you  would  place 
it  in  a  sad  predicament,  seriously  impairing  its  effi- 
ciency as  a  mouser." 

"That  's  what  I've  heard  said,"  Louis  re- 
marked, "though  I  didn't  know  the  reason  for  it. 
Now  I  see  that  to  deprive  a  cat  of  its  mustaches,  out 
of  childish  mischievousness,  is  like  depriving  a  blind 
man  of  his  cane." 

"In  my  humble  opinion,"  Uncle  Paul  continued, 
"the  cat  has  been  slandered.  The  eloquent  his- 
torian of  animals,  Buff  on,  speaks  thus  about  the  cat : 
'It  is  an  unfaithful  servant,  kept  only  out  of  neces- 
sity, as  the  enemy  of  another  and  still  more  trouble- 
some inhabitant  of  our  houses,  otherwise  not  to  be 
got  rid  of.'  " 

"Buff on  means  the  rat  and  mouse?"  was  Emile's 
query. 

"Evidently.  'Although  cats,'  says  he,  'especially 
when  young,  have  pretty  ways,  they  have  at  the  same 
time  an  innate  malice,  a  treacherous  disposition,  a 
perverse  nature,  which  age  increases  and  education 
only  masks.  From  being  determined  thieves  they 
become,  under  domestication,  docile  and  fawning 
rogues :  they  have  the  same  skill,  the  same  clever- 
ness, the  same  taste  for  mischief,  the  same  tendency 
to  petty  pilfering,  as  have  rogues.  Like  them,  they 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

know  how  to  cover  their  tracks,  dissimulate  their 
purpose,  watch  for  their  opportunity,  lie  in  wait, 
choose  their  time,  seize  the  right  moment  for  their 
stroke,  then  steal  away  and  escape  punishment, 
scamper  off  and  keep  out  of  sight  until  they  are 
called  back.  They  make  a  show  of  attachment, 
nothing  more,  as  one  can  see  in  their  sly  movements 
and  shifty  eyes.  They  never  look  the  loved  one  in 
the  face ;  whether  from  distrust  or  falsity,  they  take 
a  roundabout  way  of  approach  and  of  winning  the 
caresses  which  they  value  only  for  the  momentary 
pleasure  they  themselves  receive.  It  cannot  be  said 
that  cats,  although  living  in  our  homes,  are  thor- 
oughly domesticated.  The  best  tamed  among  them 
are  no  whit  more  brought  under  control  than  the 
rest;  one  might  even  say  that  they  are  entirely  be- 
yond control.  They  do  only  what  they  choose,  and 
nothing  in  the  world  would  avail  to  keep  them  for  a 
moment  in  a  place  they  desired  to  leave.  Further- 
more, most  of  them  are  still  half  wild,  do  not  know 
their  masters,  frequent  only  garrets  and  roofs,  and 
sometimes  the  kitchen  and  pantry  when  they  are 
hungry.  They  are  less  attached  to  persons  than  to 
houses.'  " 

"To  my  mind,"  commented  Jules,  "that  accusa- 
tion amounts  to  no  more  than  this,  that  Buffon  did 
not  like  cats." 

"Oh,  perhaps,"  suggested  Louis,  "he  wrote  it 
when  he  was  vexed  at  some  misdeed  committed  by 
his  tom-cats." 

"I,  for  my  part,"  Uncle  Paul  replied,  "will  say 


THE  CAT  25S 

this  to  you:  treat  the  cat  well,  and  it  will  not  be 
wild;  feed  it,  and  it  will  not  turn  thief;  show  it  a 
little  attention,  and  it  will  return  the  compliment. 
But  what  a  miserable  fate  it  often  has!  It  is  al- 
lowed to  grow  thin  with  hunger  under  the  pretense 
that  then  it  will  hunt  rats  better.  If  it  comes  into 
the  kitchen,  mewing  for  something  to  eat,  it  is  driven 
out  with  a  broom;  if  it  ventures  into  the  dining- 
room  to  gather  up  the  crumbs  fallen  from  the  table, 
the  dog,  suspecting  designs  on  the  bone  it  holds  be- 
tween its  paws,  growls  and  makes  a  move  to  throttle 
the  invader.  As  a  last  resort  the  poor  animal  takes 
to  pilfering.  Who  would  go  so  far  as  to  call  this  a 
crime?  Certainly  not  Uncle  Paul." 

"Nor  I  either,"  chimed  in  Jules;  "for  it  must 
eat." 

' i  Buffon  says  the  cat  does  not  become  attached  to 
its  master,  that  it  shows  no  signs  of  affection.  I  ap- 
peal the  case  to  your  own  memories  of  the  matter. 
When  Minette,  our  gentle  cat,  installs  herself  with 
loud  purrings  on  Emile 's  knees  in  the  chimney- 
corner  and  rubs  her  pretty  red  nose  on  his  cheeks, 
then  on  his  forehead,  and  higher  still  until  it  makes 
his  cap  fall  off,  are  not  those,  I  ask  you,  kisses  and 
caresses  of  the  most  affectionate  sort?  Emile  is 
transported  with  delight  when  his  cap  tumbles  to 
the  floor  under  the  poking  of  that  delicate  nose.  He 
puts  it  on  again  and  the  friendly  rubbing  begins 
afresh." 

"Certainly,"  Emile  assented,  "the  cat  gives  me 
caress  for  caress.  Her  look  is  affectionate,  not 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

treacherous  and  distrustful,  as  the  author  says,  that 
you  have  just  been  reading.  And  then  Minette 
never  steals,  and  always  has  velvet  paws  for  me. 
She  has  n  rt  once  given  me  a  scratch  in  all  the  time 
we  have  played  together." 

"Emile  forgets  one  very  good  quality,"  put  in 
Jules.  "Minette  is  a  splendid  hunter.  Let  her 
hear  the  slightest  rustle  anywhere,  and  there  she 
will  sit  for  hours  and  hours  on  the  watch,  motion- 
less, patient,  all  eyes  and  ears.  A  mouse  heard  is 
for  her  a  mouse  caught.  But  it  isn't  hunger  that 
gives  her  that  love  of  hunting,  for  she  kills  her 
mouse  and  then  leaves  it  lying  there,  with  no  desire 
to  eat  it." 

"Minette  has  other  talents  too,"  Emile  hastened 
to  add.  "When  there  is  going  to  be  a  change  in  the 
weather,  she  licks  her  paws  and  washes  her  ears 
and  nose  over  and  over.  Then  you  say,  that  is  a 
sign  of  snow,  or  a  sign  of  storm.  And  the  cat's  pre- 
diction is  hardly  ever  wrong.  When  the  north  wind 
blows  cold  and  dry,  I  like  to  rub  my  hand  over  her 
fur  and  make  the  bright  sparks  fly.  In  the  evening  I 
like  to  hear  her  rerr-rerr,  which  makes  me  sleepy." 

"Why,"  asked  Uncle  Paul  in  conclusion,  "do  not 
Minette 's  good  qualities  agree  with  what  Buff  on 
says!  Because  you  love  the  cat  and  the  cat  loves 
you  in  return.  Animals,  my  dear  children,  are  what 
people  make  them.  Good  master,  good  servant." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SHEEP 

'/CONCERNING  the  cat's  origin  there  are  sur- 
\*S  mises,  probabilities;  concerning  the  sheep's 
origin  nothing  is  yet  known.  But  if  we  are  ignorant 
from  what  wild  species  the  sheep  descends,  we  are 
at  least  certain  it  came  to  us  from  Asia,  where  man 
has  raised  flocks  of  these  useful  animals  from  the 
earliest  recorded  times." 

"The  East  gave  us  the  dog,  cat,  and  sheep,"  Jules 
here  interposed,  "and  from  what  you  said  in  some 
of  our  former  talks,  I  got  the  impression  that  the 
other  domestic  animals  also  came  from  Asia." 

*  '  The  Asiatic  origin  of  our  oldest  known  and  most 
important  domestic  animals  is  a  truth  that  all  the 
records  of  history  affirm  without  a  shadow  of  doubt. 
We  owe  to  the  East  the  ox,  horse,  donkey,  sheep, 
goat,  pig,  dog,  cat,  hen.  Civilization,  in  fact,  had  its 
cradle  in  the  lands  of  central  Asia,  where  already 
there  were  flourishing  peoples  versed  in  sheep-rais- 
ing and  agriculture  when  in  our  western  countries 
man,  still  plunged  in  wretched  barbarism,  lived  only 
by  the  chase  and  hunted  the  bear  and  urus  with  his 
stone  weapons." 

"Then  those  ancient  peoples  of  the  East  came  and 

255 


£56  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

settled  here  and  brought  the  first  domestic  animals 
with  them?"  asked  Jules. 

"That  is  just  how  it  happened,  and  hence  the 
Asiatic  origin  of  our  oldest  domestic  animals." 

"Doubtless  the  sheep  was  with  the  new-comers?" 

"Very  likely;  for  its  habits  to-day  show  the  sheep 
to  have  been  dependent  on  man  a  very  long  time. 
No  species  has  undergone  so  radical  a  change  from 
its  primitive  character;  and  this  indicates  a  very 
early  domestication. 

"In  the  beginning,  when  it  wandered  wild  on  the 
grassy  plateaus  of  Asia,  the  sheep  must  have  had 
means  of  defense  against  its  enemies,  since  other- 
wise the  species  would  have  become  extinct.  It  was 
not  enough  for  it  to  crop  the  greensward;  it  must 
also  have  been  able  to  hold  its  own  when  menaced, 
or  at  least  to  escape  from  danger  by  flight.  The 
other  domestic  species  shared  the  same  risks  as  a 
necessary  concomitant  of  freedom ;  but  all  knew  how 
to  defend  themselves,  and  all,  under  man's  protec- 
tion, have  nevertheless  kept  the  use  of  their  own 
means  of  protection.  Left  to  itself,  the  dog,  by  its 
courage  and  its  murderous  jaws,  valiantly  copes 
with  any  assailant;  the  horse  flees  at  full  gallop  or 
breaks  the  enemy's  bones  with  a  vigorous  kick;  the 
cat  climbs  trees  and  from  her  lofty  fortress  braves 
the  foe ;  bulls  group  themselves  in  a  circle,  the  weak 
ones  in  the  center,  the  strong  at  the  circumference, 
with  horns  pointing  out,  and  woe  then  to  any  crea- 
ture that  dares  to  approach ;  the  goat  overthrows  the 
aggressor  by  butting  with  lowered  head.  What 


SHEEP  257 

can  the  sheep  do  in  its  turn  when  in  danger?  Noth- 
ing. With  no  thought  of  defending  itself,  imbecile 
and  stupid,  it  waits  for  the  wolf  to  come  and  devour 
it. 

'  '  Look  at  a  flock  of  sheep,  startled  by  some  unusual 
noise.  They  rush  headlong,  bewildered  with  fear; 
they  crowd  together,  press  against  one  another, 
lower  their  heads  to  the  ground,  then  await,  motion- 
less, the  issue  of  the  event.  The  wolf,  if  it  be  a  wolf 
that  has  caused  the  panic,  has  only  to  choose  its  vic- 
tim out  of  this  compact  mass:  there  will  be  no 
thought  of  resistance  or  flight.  What  would  become 
of  the  poor  creatures  if  shepherds  and  dogs  were  not 
there  to  protect  them?  In  a  few  days  they  would 
all  perish,  sacrificing  their  last  drop  of  blood  to  the 
wolf.  See  them  again  in  the  open  country  in  bad 
weather.  They  press  close  to  one  another  and  re- 
fuse to  budge,  enduring  rain  and  snow,  shivering 
with  wet  and  cold,  while  not  one  of  them  so  much  as 
thinks  of  seeking  shelter.  Their  stupidity  is  such 
that  they  do  not  even  seem  to  notice  how  unfavorable 
their  situation  is ;  they  come  to  a  standstill  wherever 
they  may  happen  to  be,  and  obstinately  stay  there. 
To  make  them  go  and  to  conduct  them  to  a  more  suit- 
able spot,  the  shepherd  is  obliged  to  chase  them  be- 
fore him  and  give  them  a  leader  taught  to  walk  in 
front. 

"Certainly,  in  its  primitive  freedom  the  sheep 
could  not  have  been  the  actual  animal  of  our  folds ; 
it  must  have  possessed  the  qualities  necessary  to 
sustain  its  existence;  it  must  have  found,  in  itself 


258  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

means  of  protection  and  must  at  least  have  imitated 
the  goat,  which  resolutely  faces  danger,  or,  if  too 
weak,  scales  with  unerring  foot  the  ledges  of  rock 
and  there  takes  refuge.  The  sheep,  as  we  have  it 
to-day,  is  absolutely  incapable  of  living  without 
man's  protection;  left  to  itself,  the  whole  species 
would  soon  perish,  the  victim  of  carnivorous  animals 
and  inclement  weather.  To  lose  thus  all  its  native 
instincts  and  descend  to  the  lowest  degree  of  stu- 
pidity, how  many  centuries  of  servitude  must  it  not 
have  undergone?  I  would  not  venture  to  say;  but 
at  least  I  see  that,  after  the  dog,  the  sheep  was  one 
of  the  first  animals  tamed  by  man. 

"No  other  species,  the  dog  alone  excepted,  has 
undergone  so  complete  a  transformation  at  our 
hands.  Let  me  tell  you  some  of  the  strange  results 
obtained.  In  Africa,  Madagascar,  and  India  there 
is  found  a  breed  of  sheep  in  which  the  tail,  loaded 
with  a  heavy  mass  of  fat  on  each  side,  right  and 
left,  is  transformed  into  a  sort  of  ponderous  battle- 
dore, broader  at  its  base  than  the  body  itself.  The 
weight  of  this  inconvenient  appendage  amounts  to 
and  even  exceeds  thirty  pounds. " 

"Inconvenient  appendage  I  should  say  it  would 
be,"  remarked  Louis.  "The  sheep  cannot  walk 
very  easily  with  that  heavy  battledore  knocking 
against  its  hocks.  The  tallow  from  that  tail  would 
make  a  good  many  candles,  but  it  is  a  very  trouble- 
some sort  of  treasure  when  one  has  to  run  away  from 
a  wolf." 

"This   breed   is   called   the   broad-tailed    sheep. 


SHEEP  259 

Other  sheep,  particularly  in  southern  Eussia,  have 
tails  of  moderate  size,  like  the  tails  of  our  sheep, 
but  very  long  so  that  they  drag  on  the  ground. " 

" Again  a  hindrance  when  fleeing  from  the  wolf," 
Jules  observed.  "In  its  primitive  state  the  sheep 
certainly  had  neither  this  long  trailing  tail  catching 
in  the  bushes,  nor  that  other  one  in  the  shape  of  a 
heavy  load  of  tallow. ' ' 

"Neither  had  it  the  singular  horns  that  it  some- 
times bears  to-day.  Some  sheep  have  horns  of  ex- 
cessive length  and  twisted  in  long  spirals  that  some- 
times stand  erect  on  the  top  of  the  forehead,  and 
sometimes  point  sidewise.  Those  weapons  are  more 
threatening  than  serviceable:  they  needlessly  over- 
burden the  head  and  are  a  serious  source  of  annoy- 
ance to  the  animal  when  it  has  to  pass  through  a 
thicket  of  underbrush.  As  if  to  hamper  themselves 
still  more  in  the  brambles,  other  breeds  wear  an  ad- 
dition to  this  inconvenient  ornament.  The  sheep  of 
the  island  of  Cyprus  have  two  pairs  of  horns,  one 
standing  straight  up  on  the  forehead,  the  other  curv- 
ing back  behind  the  ears.  Those  of  the  Faroe  Is- 
lands have  three  pairs,  all  arranged  spirally  and 
pointing  backward.  Our  sheep,  as  a  rule,  have  only 
two  horns,  rather  small  and  making  barely  one  turn 
at  the  sides  of  the  head ;  apparently  that  is  how  the 
primitive  species  wore  them.  In  fact  the  greater 
part  of  our  flocks  is  composed  of  entirely  hornless 
sheep.  It  is  best  for  the  animal,  which  is  thus  re- 
lieved of  a  useless  load. 

"These  horns,  double  or  triple  in  number,  and 


260  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

twisting  in  curious  fashion,  this  tail  so  long  that  it 
trails  on  the  ground,  or  else  swollen  with  tallow  and 
broad  beyond  measure,  while  showing  us  what  singu- 
lar modifications  the  body  of  the  sheep  is  capable 
of,  are  of  no  use  to  us  whatever.  It  is  much  to  be 
preferred  that  the  animal,  profiting  by  the  care  we 
bestow  upon  it,  should  gain  in  weight  and  furnish 
more  abundant  food  material.  The  English,  who 
are  great  meat-eaters,  were  the  first  to  ask  them- 
selves this  question:  how  to  make  the  sheep  an 
abundant  source  of  mutton  chops  and  legs  of  mut- 
ton, or,  in  other  words,  how  to  increase  to  the  utmost 
the  proportion  of  it  that  can  be  eaten  and  at  the 
same  time  diminish  or  even  reduce  to  nothing  that 
which  cannot? 

"A  celebrated  breeder,  a  benefactor  to  humanity 
— Bakewell  was  his  name — solved  the  problem  in 
England  about  a  century  ago.  He  said  to  himself: 
The  sheep  that  I  want  as  a  producer  of  legs  of  mut- 
ton must  have  no  horns,  for  these  useless  ornaments 
would  mean  so  much  pure  loss  in  the  total  weight  of 
the  animal;  the  food  required  for  the  growth  and 
maintenance  of  the  horns  would  be  better  employed 
in  producing  flesh.  For  the  same  reason  it  should 
have  only  just  enough  wool  to  clothe  it  and  protect 
it  from  the  cold.  The  bones  I  cannot  eliminate,  the 
more  's  the  pity,  as  in  their  place  I  should  prefer 
something  of  greater  nutritive  value.  But  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  they  are  necessary  to  the  animal :  they  are 
the  indispensable  framework  for  the  flesh.  If  I  can- 
not eliminate  them,  the  bones  shall  at  least  be  light, 


SHEEP  261 

thin,  reduced  in  weight  and  size.  When  the  leg  of 
mutton  is  served  at  table,  the  knife  must  be  able  to 
penetrate  it  like  a  ball  of  butter  and  find  in  the  cen- 
ter only  a  small,  hard  drum-stick.  I  will  reduce  in 
like  manner  all  that  is  not  meat  and  leave  the  sheep 
only  what  is  strictly  necessary  for  the  functions  of 
life." 

"And  that  came  to  pass  as  the  breeder  wished?" 
asked  Jules. 

1 '  That  came  to  pass  just  as  Bakewell  foresaw.  In 
his  sheepfolds  the  animal  was  transformed  into  an 
opulent  source  of  meat,  such  as  had  never  been  seen 
before ;  it  became  a  pair  of  enormous  legs  of  mutton 
and  a  pair  of  enormous  shoulders,  led  to  pasture 
by  a  small  head  on  four  thin  legs." 

"With  large  mutton  chops  mixed  in?"  Emile  in- 
quired. 

"To  be  sure.  A  few  figures  will  show  you  the  im- 
portance of  the  result  obtained.  The  gross  weight 
of  our  ordinary  sheep  averages  thirty  kilograms, 
representing  about  twenty  kilograms  net  of  meat. 
The  Leicester  sheep,  as  the  perfected  breed  devel- 
oped by  BakewelPs  exertions  is  called,  weighs  from 
sixty  to  one  hundred  and  sometimes  one  hundred 
and  fifty  kilograms ;  and  its  net  yield  in  meat  varies 
from  fifty  to  one  hundred  kilograms ;  that  is,  at  the 
very  lowest,  two  and  a  half  times  as  much  meat  as 
our  common  sheep  produces,  and  at  the  highest, 
which  is  exceptional,  I  admit,  five  times  as  much." 

'  <  Then  man  can  do  what  he  likes  with  his  domestic 
animals  to  change  them  as  he  pleases?"  asked  Louis. 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"He  does  not  do  exactly  as  lie  likes,  for  tlie  organ- 
ization is  from  its  very  nature  bounded  by  definite 
limits  which  no  effort  of  ours  can  set  aside;  but  by 
holding  one  end  constantly  in  view  and  bending 
every  exertion  toward  its  attainment  he  can  do 
much.  The  great  means  used  by  Bakewell  on  the 
breeding  of  sheep,  and  utilized  since  for  the  improve- 
ment of  various  other  domestic  animals,  consists 


Leicester  Sheep 

above  all  in  selection,  which  I  have  already  told  you 
something  about  in  speaking  of  the  dog.  Selection 
is  called  into  play  when  the  breeder  singles  out  and 
sets  apart  for  the  propagation  of  the  species  those 
individuals  that  show  in  the  highest  degree  the  qual- 
ities he  desires.  These  qualities,  however  feeble  at 
first,  are  capable  of  great  development  in  the  course 
of  several  generations ;  for  the  offspring  inherit  the 
parents'  qualities,  keep  them,  and  add  to  this  inher- 
itance certain  qualities  of  their  own." 


SHEEP  263 

"You  compared  that  to  a  snowball  increasing  in 
size  as  it  rolls, "  said  Jules. 

"Yes,  my  friend;  the  succeeding  generations,  al- 
ways chosen  from  among  the  best,  are  the  successive 
layers  that  bring  their  complement  to  the  increase 
of  the  ball. " 

"The  Leicester  sheep  must  have  acted  on  the 
snowball  wonderfully,  to  increase  its  weight  from 
thirty  kilograms  to  one  hundred  and  fifty.7' 

"I  admit  that  such  a  transformation  is  not 
brought  about  in  a  single  year,  and  that  Bakewell 
must  have  had  great  confidence  in  his  method  to  de- 
vote his  whole  life  to  the  pursuit  of  the  end  foreseen 
by  his  genius. ' ' 

"What  is  this  famous  Leicester  sheep  like?" 
asked  Emile. 

'  *  Its  trunk  is  all  of  a  size,  almost  cylindrical.  The 
head  is  small,  bald,  and  without  horns.  It  is  sup- 
ported by  a  neck  so  slender  and  short  that  the  head 
appears  to  spring  directly  from  the  trunk." 

"To  judge  by  the  picture  you  are  showing  us,  one 
would  say  that  the  head  came  out  of  a  hole  made  in 
the  middle  of  the  fleece." 

1  i  That  comes  from  the  smallness  of  the  neck.  The 
wool,  long  and  coarse,  takes  the  form  of  pointed 
locks  hanging  down  and  not  very  close  together,  so 
that  the  whole  fleece  weighs  much  less  than  one 
would  suppose  from  the  size  of  the  animal.  The 
four  legs  are  thin  and  naked.  All  the  bones  in  short, 
are  remarkably  light,  having  only  enough  solidity 
to  support  the  animal's  massive  bulk  of  flesh." 


264  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"Is  this  breed  found  in  France?"  Louis  asked. 

"With  us  it  is  represented  by  the  Flemish  breed, 
raised  in  Flanders,  Normandy,  and  Poitou.  It  is 
the  most  corpulent  of  the  French  varieties,  furnish- 
ing sheep  that  weigh  as  much  as  sixty  kilograms, 
and  more.  In  the  second  class  for  size  comes  the 
Picardy  breed,  scattered  over  Picardy,  Brie,  and 
Beauce.  The  sylvan  breed  of  Touraine,  Sologne, 
Bourgogne,  Anjou,  in  short  a  great  part  of  central 
France,  is  smaller  still.  It  is  remarkable  for  the 
fineness  of  its  wool  and  the  excellence  of  its  flesh. 
By  its  side  may  be  placed  the  Provence  breed,  occu- 
pying Roussillon,  Provence,  and  Languedoc.  Im- 
mense flocks  of  this  variety  graze  during  the  winter 
in  the  salt  marshes  bordering  the  Mediterranean, 
notably  in  the  vast  pebbly  plain  of  Crau  and  in  the 
island  of  Camargue  which  the  forks  of  the  Ehone 
form  at  the  mouth  of  that  river.  After  the  cold 
weather  is  past,  these  flocks  move  up  to  the  high 
mountains  of  Dauphiny,  where  they  pass  the  whole 
summer  out  of  doors.  I  will  come  back  in  a  few 
moments  to  their  interesting  migrations. 

"Besides  meat,  the  sheep  furnishes  us  wool,  which 
is  still  more  important,  since  it  is  the  best  material 
for  our  clothing.  Other  animals,  the  ox  and  pig  for 
example,  feed  us  with  their  flesh ;  only  the  sheep  can 
clothe  us.  With  wool  we  make  mattresses  and 
weave  cloth,  flannel,  serge,  in  fact  all  the  different 
fabrics  best  adapted  for  protecting  us  from  the  cold. 
It  is  far  and  away  the  most  suitable  material  for 
clothing;  cotton,  despite  its  importance,  takes  only 


SHEEP  265 

second  place ;  and  silk,  with  all  its  fine  qualities,  is 
very  inferior  to  wool  for  actual  service.  The 
sheep's  coat,  more  than  anything  else,  we  use  for 
clothing ;  we  cover  ourselves  with  its  fleece  after  con- 
verting it  by  spinning  and  weaving  into  magnificent 
cloth. " 

"All  the  same,"  objected  Emile,  "wool  is  not  in 
the  least  beautiful  when  it  is  on  the  animal's  back; 
it  is  dirty,  badly  combed,  often  completely  covered 
with  filth.  To  be  changed  into  the  fleece  suitable  for 
cloth  it  must  go  through  a  good  many  processes. " 

"A  good  many,  indeed.  We  will  speak  only  of 
the  first,  for  the  others  would  lead  us  too  far  from 
our  subject. 

"As  it  is  found  on  the  sheep,  the  wool  is  soiled  by 
the  sweat  of  the  animal  and  by  dust,  which  together 
form  a  layer  of  dirt  called  natural  grease.  An  ener- 
getic washing  is  necessary  to  remove  these  impuri- 
ties. The  best  way  is  to  wash  the  sheep  itself  before 
shearing.  The  flock  is  driven  to  the  edge  of  a 
stream,  not  so  cold  as  to  endanger  the  health  of  the 
animals,  and  there  each  sheep  is  seized  in  turn  by 
men  who  plunge  it  into  the  water  and  rub  and 
squeeze  the  fleece  with  their  hands  until  the  grease 
has  disappeared  and  the  water  runs  clear  from  the 
tufts  of  wool.  That  is  what  is  called  washing  on  the 
back,  because  the  wool  is  cleaned  on  the  body  itself, 
on  the  animal's  back. 

*  *  At  other  times  the  sheep  is  shorn  without  having 
been  washed  first,  just  as  it  comes  out  of  the  fold, 
with  all  its  coating  of  dust  and  sweat.  The  wool 


266  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

thus  obtained  is  called  greasy  wool,  while  the  washed 
fleece  is  known  as  greaseless  wool.  The  greasy  wool 
is  too  dirty  to  be  used  as  it  is,  even  for  making  mat- 
tresses ;  it  is  washed  in  a  stream  of  running  water, 
and  then  it  is  like  the  wool  taken  from  a  washed 
sheep. 

"To  shear  a  sheep,  the  animal  is  tied  fast  by  all 
four  legs  to  keep  it  from  moving  and  perhaps  get- 
ting cut  during  the  operation ;  then  it  is  placed  on  a 
table  about  as  high  as  a  man  is  tall,  and  with  large, 
wide-bladed  shears  the  wool  is  clipped  off  as  close 
as  possible  to  the  skin  without  at  the  same  time  cut- 
ting the  poor  animal.  As  the  locks  of  wool  are  nat- 
urally curly  and  entangled,  the  fleece  comes  off  all  in 
one  piece. 

1 '  Sheep  are  white,  brown,  and  black.  White  wool 
can  be  dyed  any  shade,  from  the  lightest  to  the  dark- 
est, whereas  black  or  brown  will  only  take  dark  col- 
ors. White  wool,  therefore,  is  always  preferred 
to  any  other ;  but  however  beautiful  it  may  be  after 
all  impurities  have  been  removed  by  washing,  it  is 
still  far  from  possessing  the  degree  of  whiteness 
that  it  should  have  if  it  is  to  be  used  without  dyeing. 
Accordingly  it  is  bleached  by  being  exposed  in  a 
closed  room  to  the  suffocating  vapor  that  comes 
from  burning  sulphur. 

"Wool  varies  in  value  according  to  the  sheep  that 
produced  it;  there  are  different  degrees  of  coarse- 
ness and  fineness  and  length.  The  best  wool,  that 
which  is  reserved  for  the  finest  stuffs,  comes  from 
a  breed  of  sheep  raised  principally  in  Spain  and 


SHEEP  267 

known  by  the  name  of  merino.  This  breed  has  a 
squat,  short,  thick  body,  legs  strong  and  short,  large 
head  furnished  with  stout  horns  that  fall  in  a  spiral 
behind  the  ear,  woolly  forehead,  and  a  very  snub 
nose.  The  skin,  fine  and  pink,  forms  at  different 
parts  of  the  body,  chiefly  around  the  neck,  ample 
folds  which  give  room  for  additional  fleece.  Wool 
covers  the  whole  body,  except  the  muzzle,  from  the 
edge  of  the  hoofs  to  a  rim  around  the  eyes.  It  is 
fine,  curly,  elastic,  and  short.  The  grease  with 
which  it  is  impregnated  is  very  abundant,  so  that 
the  dust  sticking  to  it  forms  on  the  surface  of  the 
fleece  a  grayish  crust,  a  sort  of  plate-armor,  which 
splits  open  here  and  there  with  a  slight  crackling 
sound  when  the  animal  moves,  and  closes  of  itself 
when  the  animal  is  at  rest.  By  washing,  these  im- 
purities all  disappear  and  merino  wool  then  shows 
the  whiteness  of  snow  and  has  a  softness  that  rivals 
silk. 

"In  Spain  the  merino  flocks  pass  the  winter  in  the 
fertile  plains  of  the  South,  in  a  climate  remarkable 
for  its  mildness.  At  the  beginning  of  April  they 
start  for  the  high  mountains  of  the  North,  which 
they  reach  after  a  journey  of  a  month  or  six  weeks. 
All  through  the  summer  they  remain  in  the  highland 
pastures,  rich  in  savory  greensward  which  the  sum- 
mer sun  never  dries  up,  and  at  the  end  of  September 
they  descend  again  to  the  plains  of  the  South. 
These  traveling  flocks,  changing  from  plain  to  moun- 
tain and  from  mountain  to  plain,  according  to  the 
season,  are  called  migratory  flocks.  Some  of  them 


268  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

number  as  many  as  ten  thousand  animals,  tended  by 
fifty  shepherds  and  as  many  dogs." 

"It  must  be  very  interesting, ' '  said  Jules,  "to  see 
those  immense  flocks  in  motion  along  the  highways 
when  they  go  to  or  from  their  mountain  pasture." 

"What  takes  place  in  the  south  of  France  can 
give  us  some  idea  of  this.  I  told  you  that  the  vast 
plains  of  the  Mediterranean  coast,  the  plains  of  Crau 
and  Camargue,  support  flocks  of  considerable  size, 
which  emigrate  to  the  mountains  of  Dauphiny  when 
warm  weather  comes,  and  return  home  on  the  ap- 
proach of  cold. ' ' 

"Are  those  sheep  merinos?"  Jules  asked. 

"No,  my  friend:  they  are  ordinary  sheep ;  but,  like 
the  merinos,  they  travel  alternately  from  the  plain 
to  the  mountains  and  from  the  mountains  to  the 
plain ;  in  a  word,  they  are  migratory  flocks.  Let  us 
look  at  them  on  their  return  journey. 

"At  the  head  are  the  donkeys  laden  with  clothing 
and  provisions.  Large  and  heavy  bells  hang  from 
their  collars,  each  collar  being  made  of  a  big  sheet  of 
bent  deal.  If  they  spy  a  thistle  beside  the  road,  they 
turn  out  and  with  a  grimace  crop  the  savory  mouth- 
ful with  a  movement  of  their  lips,  after  which  they  at 
once  return  to  their  posts  of  file-leaders.  In  large 
panniers  of  plaited  grass  one  of  them  carries  the 
lambs  born  on  the  journey,  too  weak  to  follow  the 
flock.  The  poor  little  things  bleat,  their  heads  nod- 
ding to  the  movements  of  their  nags,  and  the  mothers 
answer  from  the  midst  of  the  throng.  Next  come  the 
ill-smelling,  high-horned,  flat-nosed,  cross-eyed  he- 


SHEEP  269 

goats;  the  bells  attached  to  the  wooden  collars  ring 
under  their  thick  beards.  After  them  come  the  she- 
goats,  their  heavy  udders,  swollen  with  milk,  strik- 
ing against  their  hams.  By  their  side  caper  the 
giddy  band  of  young  kids  and  goats,  already  be- 
ginning to  butt  with  their  foreheads.  Such  is  the 
vanguard. 

"Who  is  this  with  holly  stick  cut  from  an  alpine 
hedge  and  large  drugget  cloak  draped  over  his  shoul- 
der? It  is  the  head  shepherd,  the  one  responsible 
for  the  flock.  At  his  heels  come  the  rams,  leaders 
of  the  stupid  common  sheep.  Their  horns,  twisted 
into  a  pointed  spiral,  make  three  and  four  turns. 
They  have  deal  collars  like  those  of  the  he-goats  and 
asses;  but  their  large  bells,  sign  of  honor,  have  a 
wolf's  tooth  for  tongue.  Tufts  of  red  wool,  another 
sign  of  distinction,  are  fastened  to  their  fleece  on  the 
sides  and  back.  In  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  dust 
comes  now  the  main  flock,  its  members  crowded  close 
together  and  bleating,  their  countless  little  hoofs 
striking  the  ground  with  a  noise  like  that  of  a  storm. 
In  the  rear  straggle  the  loiterers,  the  lame,  the  crip- 
pled, the  ewes  accompanied  by  their  lambs.  These 
last,  at  the  briefest  stop,  bend  their  knees,  take  the 
teat  in  their  mouth,  and,  while  their  tail  trembles 
and  wriggles,  butt  the  udder  with  their  forehead  to 
start  the  flow  of  milk.  The  shepherds  bring  up  the 
rear,  urging  on  the  slow  ones  with  their  cries  and 
giving  orders  to  the  dogs,  their  lieutenants  that  go 
and  come  on  the  flanks  of  the  army  and  watch  that 
none  go  astray.  If  all  is  in  good  order,  the  dogs 


270  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

walk  beside  their  masters,  pensive,  fully  appreci- 
ating the  seriousness  of  their  functions,  and  per- 
haps thinking  of  the  woods  they  came  from,  the  dark 
woods  where  there  are  bears. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE   GOAT 

«TN  the  hilly  regions  of  Persia  there  are  found 
A  herds  of  wild  goats  of  a  kind  that  is  universally 
regarded  as  the  parent  stock  of  the  domestic  variety. 
This  goat  closely  resembles  our  own  in  size  and  form. 
It  has  a  grayish  fawn-colored  coat  with  a  black  line 
on  the  backbone.  The  tail  and  forehead  are  black, 
the  cheeks  red,  the  beard  and  throat  brown.  The 
horns  have  sharp  edges  on  the  front  side  and  are 
short  in  the  female,  very  long  in  the  male,  always 
erect  on  the  forehead,  and  not  rolling  back  behind 
the  ears  like  those  of  the  ram. 

"In  domestication  the  goat  has  preserved  its  prim- 
itive instincts,  no  doubt  because,  being  of  less  value 
than  the  sheep,  it  has  not  been  so  carefully  and  com- 
pletely tamed  by  man.  It  has  remained  with  us 
much  as  it  was  on  the  bare  rocks  of  its  native  coun- 
try, lively,  wandering,  adventurous,  fond  of  lonely 
and  steep  places,  delighting  in  rocky  summits,  sleep- 
ing on  the  edge  of  precipices,  and  always  ready  to 
use  its  horns  at  the  slightest  appearance  of  hostility. 

"  Willingly  it  accompanies  the  sheep  to  pasture, 
but  without  mixing  with  the  flock,  the  stupid  society 
of  which  is  not  to  its  taste.  It  walks  at  the  head, 

271 


272  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

staying  its  impatience  on  the  way  by  browsing  an 
occasional  twig  in  the  hedgerow." 

"That  's  the  way  the  he-goats  of  the  emigrating 
flock  go,  the  captains  of  the  company/'  put  in  Jules. 
' l  The  she-goats  follow  pell-mell  with  the  kids.  Left 
to  themselves,  they  would  walk  at  the  head  and  oc- 
cupy the  post  of  honor  held  by  the  donkeys  and  he- 
goats.  ' ' 

"Arrived  at  the  pasture,  the  sheep  begin  peace- 
fully cropping  the  grass  without  straying  too  far 
from  the  spot  chosen  by  the  shepherd.  Besides,  the 
dog  is  there  to  call  to  order  any  that  might  tend  to 
wander  away.'' 

"But  the  goats  don't  listen  to  the  dog's  warning: 
their  wish  is  to  go  and  flock  apart,  is  it  not?"  asked 
Emile. 

"Precisely.  The  turf  is  green,  smooth  as  a  car- 
pet; the  grass  thick  and  tender.  What  more  could 
be  desired?  But  no,  the  goats  will  have  none  of  it. 
The  rich  grass  and  the  company  of  the  timid  sheep 
are  not  what  they  are  after.  Away  up  yonder,  on 
the  top  of  the  hill,  are  some  great  rocks,  cleft  and 
overturned  in  disorder.  In  the  clefts,  where  a  hand- 
ful of  earth  has  lodged,  there  are  thin  tufts  of  grass 
half  dried  up  by  the  sun ;  between  the  fragments  of 
stone  a  few  pitiful  shrubs  with  scanty  foliage  man- 
age to  find  room  for  their  roots.  Those  are  the 
goat's  haunts  of  delight.  Nothing  can  keep  it  from 
them ;  away  it  goes. 

"Soon  you  will  see  it  on  the  steep  slope  of  the 
rocks,  moving  about  with  ease  where  any  other  ani- 


THE  GOAT 

mal  would  break  its  neck,  and  sometimes  having  no 
more  secure  support  than  a  narrow  ledge  that  offers 
barely  room  enough  for  its  four  hoofs.  From  this 
perilous  position  it  stretches  its  neck  in  an  effort  to 
reach  the  neighboring  bush,  a  bush  no  better  than 
countless  others  that  are  in  places  easy  of  access; 
but  the  difficulty  gives  it  an  added  charm,  and  to 
get  it  the  goat  risks  its  life  on  slopes  that  would  be 
its  destruction  if  it  should  chance  to  slip.  But  don't 
worry  about  that :  the  goat  will  not  fall ;  its  sinewy 
leg  is  of  unequalled  surety,  and  its  head,  giddy 
though  it  seems,  is  never  seized  with  vertigo  on  the 
brink  of  a  precipice.  The  coveted  bit  of  foliage  is 
reached,  the  bush  twisted  out  of  shape  in  its  attain- 
ment, and  the  ascent  continues  from  one  projection 
to  another.  The  goat  is  at  the  top  of  the  rock.  It 
proclaims  its  prowess  to  the  surrounding  world  with 
bleatings.  The  sheep  are  down  there,  beneath  its 
feet.  Proudly  it  surveys  them,  saying  perhaps  to 
itself:  Poor,  timid  creatures,  they  will  never  climb 
up  here ! 

6  i  I  must  tell  you,  my  friends,  that  the  goat  is  very 
hard  to  keep  in  flocks.  Its  wandering  propensity 
always  impels  it  to  stray,  and  its  predilection  for 
precipices  leads  it  to  places  where  it  would  be  dan- 
gerous for  the  shepherd  to  follow.  It  has  a  still 
worse  caprice.  I  have  pictured  the  goat  to  you  as 
abandoning  at  the  first  opportunity  the  rich  grass  in 
which  the  sheep  delights,  to  scale  the  rocky  summit 
and  crop  the  sparse  shrubbery  growing  on  some  per- 
ilous ledge.  It  is  an  undoubted  fact  that  to  the  ten- 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

der  grass  of  the  best  pasture  it  prefers  hard  turf, 
yellowed  in  the  sun,  dried  and  trodden,  and  espe- 
cially the  young  woody  sprouts  of  the  shrub  and 
bush.  Thus  far  all  is  for  the  best,  since  such  tastes 
enable  us  to  gain  profit  from  the  most  sterile  soil  and 
even  from  the  bare  rock.  Where  the  sheep  would 
die  of  want,  the  goat  finds  the  wherewithal  to  fill  its 
udder  with  milk.  Unfortunately  its  passion  for  the 
bitter  bark  of  the  shrub  has  evil  consequences.  Cul- 
tivated grounds,  gardens,  orchards,  quickset  hedges, 
copses,  and  woods  have  no  more  terrible  enemy  than 
the  goat.  The  young  shoots  are  eagerly  browsed, 
the  bark  is  gnawed,  and  all  shrubbery  within  reach  is 
destroyed.  Accordingly,  to  prevent  these  ravages, 
severe  laws  forbid  flocks  of  goats  access  to  all 
wooded  tracts." 

"I  should  n't  like  such  gnawers  of  branches  and 
bark  among  the  pear  trees  in  the  garden, "  remarked 
Jules.  "If  any  goats  got  in  there,  it  would  be  good- 
by  forever  to  those  delicious  juicy  pears. ' ' 

"I  have  told  you  the  goat's  bad  qualities;  now  let 
us  look  at  its  good  ones.  The  goat  is  much  more 
intelligent  than  the  sheep.  It  comes  to  us  of  its  own 
accord,  makes  friends  with  us  readily,  is  responsive 
to  caresses  and  capable  of  attachment.  In  house- 
holds where  it  furnishes  the  milk  supply  it  is  the 
companion  of  the  children,  who  know  how  to  win  its 
friendship  by  a  few  handfuls  of  choice  grass.  It 
takes  part  in  their  games  and  amuses  them  with  its 
frolicsome  gambols." 

"It  also  runs  with  lowered  head  at  its  playmates 


THE  GOAT  275 

as  if  it  meant  to  knock  them  over  with  a  butt  of  its 
horns/'  added  Emile;  "but  it  is  only  in  fun.  They 
hold  out  an  open  hand,  and  the  goat  strikes  the  palm 
very  softly  without  hurting  it,  provided  they  are 
good  friends.  If  ijot,  I  should  n  't  like  to  find  myself 
facing  the  goat's  horns." 

"The  goat  is  always  friendly  if  well  treated.  Its 
butting  is  then  harmless,  and  play  does  not  degener- 
ate into  a  fight. 

"To  appreciate  fully  the  kindness  of  the  goat,  one 
must  have  witnessed  the  following  illustration  of  it. 
When  a  nursing  baby  has  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
its  mother,  it  sometimes  happens  that  the  she-goat  is 
substituted  as  a  nurse.  In  this  function  the  excel- 
lent animal  is  truly  admirable ;  the  tenderest  mother 
is  not  more  vigilant  or  more  assiduous.  To  the 
wailing  of  the  beloved  baby  it  responds  with  a  gen- 
tle bleating  and  runs  to  it  in  all  haste,  lying  on  its 
side  the  better  to  present  its  udder  to  the  nursling. 
If  there  is  any  delay  in  putting  the  baby  within 
reach,  the  goat  by  its  restless  movements,  trembling 
voice,  I  might  almost  say  by  its  gestures,  begs  that 
the  infant  be  allowed  to  suck.  How  shall  I  express 
it,  my  friends?  The  animal  in  this  action  is  sub- 
lime in  its  devotion. 

' t  Should  you  like  now  to  see  the  goat  giving  proof 
of  its  tame,  trustful  nature?  I  will  tell  you  how  the 
milk-peddlers  of  our  southern  towns  are  in  the  habit 
of  leading  their  flocks  of  goats  through  the  streets,  to 
sell  from  door  to  door  the  milk  freshly  drawn  under 
the  buyer's  very  eyes.  What  would  the  timid  sheep 


276  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

do  if  led  thus  through  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of 
a  populous  town?  It  would  take  fright  and  run 
away,  and  in  its  foolish  terror  it  would  get  crushed 
under  the  wheels  of  passing  vehicles.  The  goat  is 
not  alarmed  at  anything.  Throngs  of  people,  the 
noise  of  traffic,  the  barking  of  quarrelsome  dogs,  to 
all  this  it  is  quite  indifferent.  The  horned  company, 
its  approach  heralded  by  the  tinkling  of  little  bells, 
moves  with  a  confident  and  familiar  air  in  the  midst 
of  all  this  hustle  and  bustle,  as  if  in  the  perfect  soli- 
tude of  the  mountains.  With  graceful  coquetry  it 
looks  at  its  reflection  in  the  large  shop-windows  and 
strikes  the  flag-stones  of  the  pavement  with  ringing 
hoof.  At  the  customers'  doors,  which  the  flock 
never  fails  to  remember,  it  comes  to  a  halt.  Each' 
goat  in  its  turn  is  taken  in  hand  by  the  milkmaid,  and 
the  warm  milk  spurts  foaming  from  the  udder  into 
the  tin  measure.  They  go  on  through  the  crowd  to 
another  customer,  and  so  it  continues,  a  measure  of 
milk  at  a  time,  until  the  flock  has  exhausted  its  day's 
supply." 

"Is  there  anything  gained  by  leading  the  goats 
from  door  to  door?"  asked  Jules. 

"  Unquestionably :  the  buyer  cannot  doubt  the 
freshness  and  purity  of  the  milk  when  he  sees  it 
drawn  under  his  eyes ;  and  the  milkmaid  finds  in  the 
confidence  of  her  customers  remuneration  for  her 
extra  trouble." 

"That  's  so.  No  one  can  say  the  milk  is  watered 
if  it  comes  fresh  from  the  udder." 

"Goat's  milk  is  light  and  very  nourishing;  it 


THE  GOAT  277 

agrees  with  weak  stomachs  better  than  the  heavier 
milk  of  the  sheep  or  cow.  It  is  remarkably  abun- 
dant, too,  considering  the  smallness  of  the  animal. 
Two  liters  of  milk  a  day,  from  six  to  nine  months  in 
the  year,  make  but  a  moderate  yield.  There  are 
goats  that,  when  well-fed,  give  three  and  four  liters 
a  day. 

6  '  Thus  the  goat,  so  easily  maintained,  is  a  valuable 
resource  in  mountainous  and  arid  countries ;  it  takes 
the  place  of  the  milch  cow  in  the  poor  man's  hut,  as 
the  donkey  serves  instead  of  the  horse. 

"This  abundant  milk  supply  is  about  the  only 
merit  of  the  goat,  for  its  stringy  flesh  is  tasteless  and 
of  no  value.  Only  the  kid  is  prized  for  eating,  es- 
pecially in  the  South,  where  the  aromatic  vegetation 
of  the  hills  takes  away  its  natural  tastelessness. 
The  goat's  fleece,  though  used  for  certain  coarse 
fabrics,  is  not  of  much  importance,  either,  and  can- 
not in  any  way  take  the  place  of  sheep 's  wool.  But  a 
breed  native  in  the  hilly  regions  of  Central  Asia, 
the  Cashmere  goat,  furnishes  a  down  of  incompar- 
able fineness,  from  which  precious  stuffs  are  made. 
This  goat,  under  a  thick  fur  of  long  hair,  bears  an 
abundant  down  that  protects  it  from  the  rigors  of 
cold  and  is  shed  naturally  every  spring.  When  that 
season  comes  the  animal  is  combed  with  a  long 
toothed  comb  that  gathers  from  the  rest  of  the  fleece 
the  fine  down  detached  from  the  skin. 

"Another  breed,  the  Angora  goat,  almost  rivals 
the  Cashmere  in  fineness  of  down.  It  takes  its  name 
from  the  town  of  Angora  in  Turkey  in  Asia.  Noth- 


278  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

ing  could  be  more  seductive  in  form,  nothing  more 
graceful,  than  these  little  goats  with  their  long  silky 
fleece,  always  pure  white.  From  the  same  country 
come  the  Angora  cat  and  the  Angora  rabbit,  both 
furnished,  like  the  goat,  their  compatriot,  with  long, 
silky,  white  fur." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 


THE   OX 

THE  taming  of  the  ox  took  place  in  Asia  a  very 
long  time  ago  when  our  western  countries  were 
covered  with  wild  forests  in  which  a  few  miserable 
tattooed  tribes  wandered,  living  by  the  chase. 
Bringing  the  ox  under  subjection  must  have  been  one 
of  the  most  memorable  of  events  for  the  native  of  the 
Orient,  since  thereby  the  animal's  powerful  shoul- 
ders lent  themselves  to  the  labors  of  agriculture,  and 
the  tiller  of  the  soil  profited  accordingly.  It  must 
also  have  been  a  very  dangerous  undertaking,  no 
doubt  impossible  without  the  help  of  the  dog.  The 
friendly  goat  perhaps  came  to  man  of  its  own  ac- 
cord ;  the  peaceful 
sheep  let  itself  be 
folded  without  re- 
sistance ;  but  the  ox, 
terrible  in  power 
and  anger,  throwing 
the  disemboweled 
enemy  heavenward  ox 

with  a  toss  of  its  horns,  certainly  did  not  let  itself  be 
led  from  its  native  forest  to  the  stable  without  a  fight. 
No  account  has  come  down  to  us  of  the  brave  men 
who  first  dared  to  attack  the  formidable  beast  with 

279 


280  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  hope  of  subjugating  it;  nor  does  any  record  re- 
main of  the  difficult  training  which,  perhaps  pro- 
longed through  centuries,  finally  reduced  the  wild 
creature  to  a  state  of  docility.  The  very  first  his- 
torical reference  to  the  ox  in  the  earliest  annals 
of  our  race  shows  him  to  us  as  a  patient,  docile  beast, 
submissive  to  the  yoke,  and  in  short  no  other  than 
he  is  to-day. 

"But  if  these  bull-tamers  of  ancient  times  remain 
unknown,  all  the  East  preserves  the  memory  of  their 
invaluable  achievement.  The  man  was  forgotten, 
but  the  animal  was  feted,  here  in  one  way,  there  in 
another,  according  to  the  fancy  of  a  simple,  imagi- 
native people  striving  in  every  possible  manner  to 
evince  gratitude  for  services  rendered.  I  have  told 
you  of  ancient  Egypt  and  its  raising  of  marble  tem- 
ples to  the  bull,  and  I  have  also  described  its  practice 
of  bowing  the  forehead  to  the  dust  when  the  majestic 
beast  passed  with  its  retinue  of  attendants.  Else- 
where it  was  enjoined  on  every  one  as  a  religious 
duty  of  the  most  sacred  kind  to  raise  at  least  one  ox ; 
and,  again,  in  still  another  country,  where  horned 
cattle  were  not  yet  plentiful  enough  to  make  it  per- 
missible to  use  them  for  food,  the  laws  punished  with 
death  anybody  who  killed  or  even  maltreated  one  of 
these  animals.  In  our  day,  in  India,  the  cow  is  a 
thrice-sacred  animal.  Its  tail,  symbol  of  honor,  is 
carried  as  a  standard  before  the  great;  and  to  win 
favors  from  Heaven  the  people  believe  there  is  no 
surer  way  than  to  smear  the  body  with  cow's  dung 
and  then  go  and  wash  in  the  waters  of  the  Ganges. 


THE  OX  281 

These  anointings  with  the  holy  dung  make  you  smile, 
children;  in  me  they  arouse  serious  reflections. 
From  what  depths  of  misery  must 'not  the  domestic 
animals  have  raised  us  if  the  Hindoo  of  our  time 
still  preserves  in  these  strange  rites  some  vestiges 
of  the  ancient  veneration  of  the  entire  Orient  for  one 
of  these  animals,  and  that  one  the  most  important, 
the  ox!" 

"I  should  say  it  was  a  strange  rite,"  declared 
Jules,  "to  daub  oneself  with  dung  in  honor  of  the 
cow.  They  might  have  hit  on  a  better  way. ' ' 

"In  every  age  and  in  every  land  popular  imagina- 
tion has  easily  lent  itself  and  still  lends  itself  to  ex- 
travagant notions.  In  the  most  important  city  of 
the  South  I  have  seen,  I,  Uncle  Paul,  the  people  lead- 
ing through  the  streets,  in  triumphal  procession,  the 
fattened  ox  that  was  to  be  sacrificed  on  Easter  Eve. 
A  laurel  branch  on  its  forehead,  many-colored  rib- 
bons on  its  horns,  the  peaceful  beast  bore  on  its 
shoulders  a  pretty  little  child,  rosy,  plump,  clothed 
in  a  lamb's  skin.  A  retinue  accompanied  it  in 
bright-colored  costumes.  Is  not  that  a  vague  re- 
minder of  the  procession  of  the  bull  Apis,  with  this 
difference  that  the  Egyptian  bull  returned  after  the 
ceremony  to  its  perfumed  manger,  while  ours  meets 
its  end  in  the  heavy  blow  awaiting  it  at  the  slaugh- 
ter-house? It  is  the  custom  for  the  be-ribboned  ox 
to  be  led  from  door  to  door,  where  its  escort  never 
fails  to  present  the  basin  for  offerings,  great  and 
small ;  for  it  is  to  be  noted  that  at  the  bottom  of  every 
superstition  is  found  the  quest  of  the  piece  of  coin. 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

Thus  takes  place  throughout  all  France,  with  more 
or  less  pomp,  the  procession  of  the  fattened  ox. 

"But  here  is  a  peculiarity  worthy  of  note.  If  the 
house  has  a  wide  enough  entrance  door,  the  ox  is  led 
into  the  vestibule,  where  its  presence  is  supposed  to 
confer  honor;  and  if  by  good  luck  at  that  moment 
the  animal  deposits  on  the  floor  some  of  the  material 
used  by  the  Hindoo  for  smearing  himself,  it  is  the 
greatest  possible  blessing  for  the  visited.  A  pros- 
perous future  is  presaged  by  a  few  spans'  breadth 
of  this  dung,  according  to  the  hope  and  belief  of  the 
simple  folk.  You  see,  my  friends,  without  leaving 
home  we  find,  under  a  little  different  form,  the  In- 
dian customs  that  make  you  smile  so.  I  cannot  but 
see  therein  the  survivals  of  the  ancient  honors  paid 
to  the  bull.  Without  explaining  these  customs  to 
themselves,  without  knowing  their  origin,  without 
understanding  their  significance,  the  people  perpet- 
uate them  among  us." 

"The  survivals  from  those  old  customs,"  re- 
marked Jules,  "prove  clearly  that  the  acquisition  of 
the  ox  left  an  ineffaceable  trace  on  man 's  mind ;  but, 
once  more,  why  did  n  't  they  hit  on  some  better  way 
to  honor  the  ox?" 

"Well,  if  you  want  something  better  as  a  mark  of 
honor,  perhaps  this  will  satisfy  you :  the  invaluable 
animal  has  its  name  written  forever  among  the 
stars,  those  jewels  of  the  sky.  I  will  explain  myself. 
History  tells  us  that  we  owe  the  invention  of  astron- 
omy to  the  shepherds  of  the  East,  who  spent  their 
leisure  night-hours,  under  the  mildest  of  skies,  in 


THE  OX  283 

deciphering  the  secrets  of  the  stars  while  their  flocks 
rested  in  the  open  air.  To  get  their  bearings  in  the 
midst  of  the  infinite  multitude  of  stars,  these  shep- 
herds gave  to  the  principal  groups  or  constellations 
names  that  have  been  perpetuated  and  that  science 
still  uses.  Man's  most  precious  possession  received 
at  that  time  a  celestial  consecration  by  having  its 
name  given  to  such  and  such  a  part  of  the  sky.  One 
of  the  constellations  was  called  Taurus  (the  bull) ; 
and  that  is  what  it  still  is  and  always  will  be  called. 
In  this  group  are  seen  stars  that  form  an  angle,  the 
two  branches  of  which  represent  the  animal's  horns; 
there  is  also  a  superb  star  that  darts  red  fire  and 
suggests  the  sparkling  eye  of  an  infuriated  bull. 
What  greater  honor  could  the  bull  receive  than  to  be 
thus  placed  among  the  splendors  of  the  sky?" 

"The  shepherds'  idea  fully  satisfies  me;  nothing 
better  could  be  imagined  for  the  glorification  of  the 
ox.  Other  domestic  animals  doubtless  have  had 
places  assigned  them  in  the  firmament?" 

6 1  Of  course.  Another  constellation  is  called  Aries 
(the  ram),  another  Capricornus  (goat-horned)." 

"And  how  about  the  dog?"  Emile  asked. 

"The  dog  was  not  to  be  forgotten:  is  it  not  man's 
earliest  ally,  the  courageous  servant  that  made  pos- 
sible the  taming  of  the  herd?  Its  name  has  been 
given  to  a  magnificent  constellation  in  which  shines 
the  brightest  star  in  the  sky." 

"And  the  others,  the  cat,  horse,  pig,  and  donkey?" 

"None  of  them  received  from  the  ancient  shep- 
herds the  honor  of  a  place  in  the  firmament,  their  ac- 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

quisition  being  undoubtedly  more  recent  and  of  less 
importance.  Briefly,  my  friends,  the  most  esteemed 
and  the  most  ancient  of  our  domestic  animals  have 
been  glorified  by  honors  never  bestowed  upon  prince, 
emperor,  or  monarch.  Man's  gratitude  has  placed 
them  among  the  splendors  of  the  firmament. 

"In  Asia,  where  it  originated,  the  ox  is  no  longer 
found  wild ;  but  in  the  pampas  of  South  America  the 
species  has  resumed  its  primitive  freedom  and,  min- 
gled with  horses  that  have  become  equally  wild,  lives 
in  vast  herds  beyond  the  supervision  of  man.  Pam- 
pas is  the  name  given  to  the  immense  plains  extend- 
ing from  Buenos  Aires  to  the  foot  of  the  Cordilleras 
of  the  Andes.  During  the  rainy  season  they  fur- 
nish rich  pasturage  of  tall  grass,  but  in  the  dry 
season  verdure  disappears  and  the  soil  becomes  a 
powdery  plain  where  thistles  wave.  Nothing,  not 
even  a  tree,  breaks  the  uniformity  of  these  plains, 
the  limits  of  which  cannot  be  seen  in  any  direction. 
There  lives  the  wild  ox,  descendant  of  the  domesti- 
cated ox  that  the  Spaniards  brought  to  this  part  of 
the  New  World,  for  the  species  did  not  exist  any- 
where in  America  before  the  arrival  of  Europeans. 

"The  few  pairs  that  escaped  from  their  stables  or 
were  left  to  themselves  in  the  pastures  of  the  pam- 
pas three  or  four  centuries  ago,  have  multiplied  so 
rapidly  that  to-day  the  number  of  cattle  there  is  in- 
calculable. More  than  two  hundred  thousand  are 
slaughtered  every  year,  and  still  the  herds  show  no 
sign  of  diminution.  The  carnage  has  long  been  and 
still  continues  to  be  carried  on  for  the  sake  of  the 


THE  OX  285 

hides,  or  at  least  this  is  in  great  part  the  purpose. " 

"They  kill  the  cattle  just  for  the  hides !"  asked 
Jules  incredulously.  "Then  the  meat  isn't  good 
for  anything?" 

"It  is  excellent,  but  they  do  not  know  what  to  do 
with  it,  there  is  so  much.  The  population  of  the 
country  not  being  sufficient  to  consume  this  enor- 
mous quantity  of  food,  the  cattle  are  slaughtered,  the 
hides  removed  and  cured,  after  which  they  can  be 
kept  indefinitely,  and  the  flesh  is  left  behind  as  a  use- 
less encumbrance.  This  is  a  waste  much  to  be  re- 
gretted, for  with  us  meat  is  becoming  scarcer  every 
day,  and  our  food  problem  would  find  a*  ready  solu- 
tion in  the  pampas  cattle  that  now  feed  only  carniv- 
orous animals. 

"It  is  true  that  attempts  are  made  to  save  a  part 
of  this  copious  supply  of  provision.  The  meat  is 
cut  into  strips  which  are  dried  in  the  sun  or  salted 
or  smoked,  as  a  means  of  preservation ;  and  in  this 
state  commerce  carries  them  to  all  parts  of  the 
world.  Unfortunately,  I  must  acknowledge,  this 
meat  preserved  by  salting,  smoking,  or  'drying  is  not 
very  palatable  eating.  Let  us  hope  that  improved 
methods  of  preserving  will  be  introduced,  and  that 
some  day  South  America  will  furnish  Europe  a  rich 
supply  of  butcher's  meat. 

"In  the  present  state  of  things  the  pampas  cattle 
are  hunted  principally  for  their  hides.  I  say 
hunted,  for  the  cattle  of  the  grassy  plains  of  Buenos 
Aires  may  be  called  veritable  game,  since  these  ani- 
mals do  not  fall,  as  do  our  cattle,  under  the  blow  of 


286  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  butcher's  hammer,  but  are  pursued  in  the  open 
pasture  and  killed  on  the  spot.  The  hunter  is  on 
horseback.  For  weapon  he  has  the  lasso ;  that  is  to 
say,  a  very  long  and  tough  leather  thong,  fastened 
at  one  end  to  the  saddle-bow,  armed  at  the  other 
with  balls  of  lead.  When  the  hunted  animal  is 
within  reach,  the  hunter  throws  the  perfidious 
leather  thong,  which,  whistling  and  following  the 
course  of  the  lead,  encircles  the  animal's  horns  and 
neck.  At  the  touch  of  the  spur  the  horse  gallops  off, 
putting  forth  all  its  strength,  and  drags  the  half- 
strangled  ox  after  it.  A  plunge  of  the  dagger  in 
the  heart  finishes  the  beast.  After  removing  the 
skin  and  rolling  it  up  on  the  crupper  of  his  horse, 
the  cattle-hunter  resumes  his  quest,  leaving  to  the 
birds  of  prey  the  dead  bodies  whose  bones,  whitened 
by  rain  and  sun,  will  serve  him  on  future  expeditions 
as  material  for  building  himself  a  hut. ' ' 

"A  hut  of  bones !"  exclaimed  Emile. 

"Yes,  my  friend.  On  those  vast  plains  wood  is 
lacking  as  well  as  stones.  Therefore  bones,  piled 
one  on  top  of  another,  serve  the  hunter  of  the  pam- 
pas for  building  him  a.  shelter,  where  he  rests  under 
a  grass  roof.  The  skull  of  an  ox  with  long  horns 
serves  him  as  a  seat  by  day  and  a  pillow  at  night." 

"It  seems  to  me  I  shouldn't  sleep  very  well  with 
my  head  between  the  two  horns  of  an  ox's  skull." 

' '  The  hardened  hunter  of  the  pampas  sleeps  on  it 
as  on  feathers. ' ' 

"And  what  do  they  do  with  all  those  hides  that 
they  get  by  hunting  the- ox?"  asked  Jules. 


THE  OX  287 

11  There  is  an  extensive  commerce  in  those  hides. 
Ships  bring  them  to  us,  well  salted,  so  that  they  will 
keep.  In  our  tanneries  the  salt  is  washed  out,  and 
then  with  oak-bark  they  are  made  into  leather  for 
boots  and  shoes. ' ' 

"Then  the  leather  of  our  shoes  may  come  from 
some  ox  strangled  by  the  lasso  on  the  pampas  ?" 
Louis  queried. 

<  <  There  is  nothing  impossible  in  that.  I  would  not 
say  positively  that  we  are  not  wearing  shoes  made 
from  the  hide  of  a  wild  ox,  for  Buenos  Aires  supplies 
a  considerable  part  of  our  deficiency  in  leather.  It 
may  be,  on  the  other  hand,  that  our  shoes  come  sim- 
ply from  the  domestic  ox,  whose  hide  is  put  to  the 
same  use  as  that  of  the  South  American  bullock. 
You  are  at  liberty  to  ascribe  your  footwear  to  either 
source." 

"For  my  part,"  Emile  declared,  "I  choose  the 
wild  ox,  and  perhaps  its  body  is  now  being  used  by 
some  hunter  for  his  hut." 

"To  finish  the  subject  of  tame  cattle  that  have  run 
wild,  I  will  say  a  few  words  about  the  herds  of 
Camargue.  A  little  below  Aries,  about  seven 
leagues  from  the  sea,  the  Ehone  forks  and  encloses 
between  its  two  branches  and  the  Mediterranean  a 
large  triangular  plain.  That  is  Camargue,  a  shift- 
ing tract  subject  to  the  action  of  both  fresh  and  salt 
water,  receiving  the  alluvial  deposits  of  the  river 
and  the  sands  of  the  sea.  There  are  three  different 
regions  to  be  distinguished  in  going  from  the  river- 
banks  to  the  interior  of  the  island,  where  there  is  a 


288  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

large  pond  known  as  the  Valcares  Pond.  These  re- 
gions comprise  the  cultivated  territory,  the  pasture 
land,  and  the  group  of  ponds.  The  first,  running 
the  length  of  the  two  outlets  of  the  Ehone,  is  won- 
derfully fertile,  being  made  so  by  the  annual  de- 
posits of  silt.  Eich  harvests  gild  these  strips  of 
land  along  the  river,  the  current  of  which  prevents 
the  infiltration  of  salt  from  the  sea.  Going  further, 
one  comes  to  the  salt  marshes,  and  finally,  from  the 
center  of  the  island  to  the  sea,  stretches  the  region 
of  ponds.  This  last  is  merely  dry  land  in  the  mak- 
ing, a  plain  in  the  process  of  formation,  with  the 
river  constantly  adding  its  accretions  of  soil  and  the 
sea  forever  washing  them  away. 

"In  the  portion  devoted  to  pasturage  roam  thou- 
sands of  bullocks  that  have  reverted  to  the  wild 
state,  unprovided  with  shelter  of  any  sort  and  free 
from  all  surveillance  except  such  as  is  exercised  by 
mounted  keepers  who,  at  long  intervals,  come  and 
round  up  the  unruly  herds  with  the  aid  of  a  trident. 
Black,  small,  and  stocky,  with  fierce  eyes  and  menac- 
ing horns,  they  have  resumed  the  primitive  charac- 
teristics of  the  race.  Bad  luck  to  whoever  should 
come  and  disturb  them  at  their  sport  among  the 
reeds.  Only  the  herdsman,  mounted  on  a  fast  horse 
and  equipped  with  a,  trident  for  pricking  the  nostrils 
of  the  beasts,  can  control  the  wild  herd.  In  one  par- 
ticular alone  are  we  reminded  that  they  are  still 
man's  servants,  victims  destined  for  his  slaughter- 
houses and  sometimes  also,  alas,  set  apart  for  his 
entertainment  in  the  barbaric  bull-fight:  on  their 


THE  OX 

shoulders  the  mark  of  the  proprietor  is  branded  with 
red-hot  iron. 

1  'Over  the  same  prairies  gallop,  heedless  of  bad 
weather  and  proud  of  their  freedom,  horses  de- 
scended from  those  that  the  Arabs,  once  masters  of 
the  south  of  France,  left  in  these  regions.  They  are 
white  in  color,  small,  active,  and  skittish.  Their 
mouth  knows  not  the  bit,  nor  their  hoof  the  shoe. 
At  harvest  time  they  are  led  up  from  their  pasture- 
ground  to  tread  the  threshing-floor  and  thresh  the 
wheat.  The  work  finished,  they  are  set  free  again. 

"Of  all  our  domestic  animals  the  ox  is  certainly 
the  most  useful.  During  its  lifetime  it  draws  the 
cart  in  mountainous  regions  and  works  at  the  plow 
in  the  tillage  of  the  fields;  furthermore,  the  cow 
furnishes  milk  in  abundance.  Given  over  to  the 
butcher,  the  animal  becomes  a  source  of  manifold 
products,  each  part  of  its  body  having  a  value  of 
its  own.  The  flesh  is  highly  nutritious ;  the  skin  is 
made  into  leather  for  harness  and  shoes;  the  hair 
furnishes  stuffing  for  saddles ;  the  tallow  serves  for 
making  candles  and  soap;  the  bones,  half  calcined, 
give  a  kind  of  charcoal  or  bone-black  used  especially 
for  refining  sugar  and  making  it  perfectly  white; 
this  charcoal,  after  being  thus  used,  is  a  very  rich 
agricultural  fertilizer ;  heated  in  water  to  a  high  tem- 
perature, the  same  bones  yield  the  glue  used  by  car- 
penters; the  largest  and  thickest  bones  go  to  the 
turner's  shop,  where  they  are  manufactured  into 
buttons  and  other  small  objects ;  the  horns  are  fash- 
ioned by  the  maker  of  small-wares  into  snuff-boxes 


290  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

and  powder-boxes;  the  blood  is  used  concurrently 
with  the  bone-black  in  refining  sugar ;  the  intestines, 
cured,  twisted,  and  dried,  are  made  into  strings  for 
musical  instruments;  finally,  the  gall  is  frequently 
turned  to  account  by  dyers  and  cleaners  in  cleaning 
fabrics  and  partially  restoring  their  original  luster. 

"But  this  does  not  exhaust  the  list  of  the  animal's 
merits.  Under  man's  care,  under  the  influence  of 
climate,  soil,  and  manner  of  living,  the  ox  has  become 
modified  and  has  given  us  many  different  breeds 
that  have  adapted  themselves  to  the  most  varied 
conditions  of  existence;  one  breed  furnishing  more 
work,  another  more  meat,  and  still  another  more 
dairy  food,  according  to  our  choice.  Among  the 
breeds  scattered  over  France  I  will  limit  myself  to 
the  following. 

"A  stocky  body,  large  and  strong  head,  short, 
thick  horns,  short  and  massive  neck,  powerful  legs, 
bold  appearance,  quick  walk,  medium-sized  and  well- 
shaped  body — these  natural  endowments  make  the 
Gascon  breed  one  of  the  best  for  work.  Its  coat, 
generally  brown  or  tawny,  is  always  lighter  along 
the  back.  The  chief  source  of  this  breed  is  the  de- 
partment of  Gers. 

"The  Salers  breed  is  originally  from  the  depart- 
ment of  Cantal.  Its  coat  is  bright  red,  often  with 
white  splashes  on  the  rump  and  belly.  The  horns 
are  large,  smooth,  black  at  the  tips,  of  symmetrical 
shape,  and  pointing  a  little  backward.  Very  rustic, 
sober,  intelligent,  vigorous,  inured  to  toil,  the  Salers 
ox  is  an  excellent  worker.  When  fattened  at  the  end 


THE  OX  291 

of  its  toilsome  service,  it  gives  abundant,  firm,  and 
savory  meat.  The  cow,  if  well  fed,  can  furnish  as 
much  as  twenty  liters  of  milk  a  day. 

1 '  The  Breton  breed  stocks  the  five  departments  of 
ancient  Brittany.  It  is  characterized  by  smallness 
of  body,  readiness  for  work,  and  remarkable  excel- 
lence of  milk,  which  is  rich  in  butter-fat.  The  cow's 
coat  is  spotted  with  white  and  black  in  large 
splashes,  and  she  has  a  black  muzzle,  slender  horns, 
bright  eyes,  and  determined  gait.  The  ox,  similarly 
spotted  with  black  and  white,  has  powerful  and  very 
pointed  horns ;  but  the  peaceful  beast  never  dreams 
of  using  its  formidable  weapons. 

1  '  The  Normandy  breed  furnishes  animals  of  enor- 
mous size,  little  adapted  to  work,  and  hence  reserved 
for  the  butcher.  Some  of  these  gigantic  animals 
raised  in  the  rich  pastures  of  Normandy  are  said 
to  have  attained  the  weight  of  1970  kilograms.  In 
the  Normandy  ox  the  head  is  long  and  heavy,  muzzle 
broad,  the  mouth  deeply  cut,  the  skin  thick  and  hard, 
the  hair  close,  sometimes  red,  sometimes  brown, 
sometimes  black  and  white.  The  horns  are  rather 
short  and  are  borne  well  forward  on  the  forehead. 
On  an  average  the  cow  gives  3000  liters  of  milk  a 
year. 

"The  Garonne  breed,  occupying  the  basin  of  the 
Garonne  Eiver  from  Toulouse  to  Bordeaux,  is  like- 
wise tall,  corpulent,  and  almost  as  highly  esteemed 
for  butchering  as  the  Normandy  breed.  Its  coat  is 
uniform  in  shade,  resembling  in  color  the  yellow  of 
wheat.  The  horns,  which  turn  forward,  are  white 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

all  over;  the  edge  of  the  eyelids  and  the  nose  are 
pale  pink.  In  fact,  the  whole  physiognomy  of  the 
animal  has  something  remarkably  peaceful  about 
it." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

MILK 

MOTHER  AMBROISINE  had  just  milked  the 
goat  for  breakfast.  While  Emile  and  Jules 
were  crumbling  their  bread  each  in  a  cup  of  milk, 
foamy  and  still  warm,  Uncle  Paul,  who  takes  advan- 
tage of  every  occasion  for  enriching  the  intelligence 
of  his  young  nephews  with  new  ideas,  thus  began 
the  conversation: 

"What  a  priceless  resource  we  have  in  milk;  what 
delicious  breakfasts  with  this  food  so  nourishing,  so 
light,  so  appetizing !  To  judge  by  the  reception  you 
are  giving  it  at  this  moment,  you  know  well  how  to 
appreciate  its  value. ' ' 

"For  my  part,"  Emile  declared,  "I  like  milk  bet- 
ter than  anything  else  Mother  Ambroisine  can  give 
us,  especially  when  the  bread  is  toasted  a  little  over 
the  coals." 

"I  don't  need  anything  of  that  sort,"  said  Jules, 
"to  make  the  milk  first-rate." 

"Since  you  like  milk  so  much,  you  shall  learn 
something  about  it;  then  your  breakfast  will  give 
you  a  double  benefit,  food  for  the  body  and  food  for 
the  mind. 

"Let  us  speak  first  of  a  property  the  effects  of 
which  you  have  doubtless  seen  more  than  once  with- 

293 


294  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

out  paying  attention  to  them.  At  times  the  milk 
turns,  as  they  say ;  in  other  words,  it  curdles.  Why 
is  that!  You  do  not  know.  I  will  tell  you. 

"Here  is  a  glass  of  milk  just  as  it  came  from  the 
goat.  It  is  of  irreproachable  fluidity  without  the 
slightest  trace  of  curdling.  I  squeeze  into  it  a  drop 
of  lemon  juice,  one  only,  and  stir  the  liquid.  Im- 
mediately a  great  change  is  effected :  one  part  of  the 
milk  clots  and  rises  to  the  surface  in  thick  white 
flakes;  another  part  remains  liquid,  but  loses  its 
whiteness  and  becomes  like  slightly  turbid  water. 
If  I  let  the  glass  stand  for  some  time,  the  curd  col- 
lects at  the  surface  and  floats  on  a  clear  liquid. 
With  a  drop  of  lemon  juice  I  have  just  made  the  milk 
turn  quickly. ' ' 

Emile  examined  with  lively  interest  the  contents 
of  the  glass  thus  speedily  transformed.  His  uncle, 
whom  nothing  escapes,  perceived  it.  "What  is  it 
you  are  looking  at  so  attentively  t"  he  asked. 

"Your  experiment/'  Emile  answered,  "reminds 
me  of  what  happened  to  my  milk  one  day  at  break- 
fast. To  my  toasted  bread,  which  Jules  turns  up 
his  nose  at,  I  wanted  to  add  something  still  better. 
I  had  an  orange  and  I  took  it  into  my  head  to  squeeze 
the  juice  into  my  cup  of  milk,  thinking  to  make  a  de- 
licious drink  of  the  mixture.  Who  was  the  fool  that 
time?  It  was  giddy  Emile.  The  milk  instantly 
curdled,  just  like  this  when  you  squeezed  the  lemon 
juice  into  it.  Trying  to  improve  my  cup  of  milk,  I 
only  made  it  so  that  I  had  to  throw  it  all  away,  it  had 
gone  so  bad." 


MILK  295 

"I  wish  I  could  have  seen  the  face  Emile  made," 
said  Jules,  "when  he  saw  the  result  of  his  improve- 
ment. ' r 

"I  was  much  surprised,  I  admit,"  Emile  rejoined, 
'  '  to  find  how  two  things,  orange  juice  and  milk,  each 
excellent  by  itself,  could  make  such  a  nasty  drink 
when  mixed." 

"In  future,  my  friends,  you  will  know  that  any- 
thing sour  makes  milk  turn.  What  I  brought  about 
with  lemon  juice  you  effected  with  orange,  which 
contains,  though  in  small  quantity  and  masked  by 
the  sweet  flavor  of  the  fruit,  exactly  the  same  ingre- 
dient that  gives  the  lemon  its  sour  taste. 

i  l  The  juice  of  sorrel  leaves,  that  of  green  grapes, 
and  of  unripe  fruits  in  general,  vinegar,  and  in  fact 
everything  with  a  similar  taste,  make  milk  turn  at 
once.  These  soul-tasting  substances  are  called 
acids.  Vinegar  is  an  acid;  that  which  gives  its  sour- 
ness to  the  lemon  is  another;  green  grapes  contain  a 
third;  sorrel  leaves  furnish  a  fourth.  The  number 
of  acids  is  very  considerable.  All  those  that  we 
need  to  know  anything  about  have  this  same  sharp 
flavor,  sometimes  stronger,  sometimes  weaker;  all, 
in  short,  make  milk  curdle  just  as  I  showed  you  with 
the  acid  of  the  lemon. 

"From  theory  let  us  turn  to  practice.  Cleanli- 
ness in  everything  is  of  the  first  importance,  but  in 
the  care  of  milk  especially  must  one  be  scrupulous 
in  this  particular.  The  vessels  for  holding  it  and 
keeping  it  any  length  of  time  must  be  carefully  and 
thoroughly  cleaned  as  often  as  they  are  used,  if  one 


296  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

would  avoid  the  risk  of  its  turning.  Suppose  a  few 
drops  of  old  milk  or  some  remnants  of  any  kind  of 
food  are  left  in  a  pot,  tucked  away  where  they  are 
hard  to  get  at:  these  impurities  soon  turn  sour,  es- 
pecially in  warm  weather,  and  the  milk,  finding  an 
acid  substance  in  the  vessel,  quickly  spoils  and 
curdles.  How  often  the  milk  itself  is  blamed  for 
this  accident  when  want  of  cleanliness  is  the  sole 
cause ! 

"Milk  contains  three  principal  substances, 
namely :  cream,  or  fatty  matter  from  which  butter 
is  made;  casein,  or  curds,  used  for  making  cheese; 
and,  finally,  a  substance  with  a  slightly  sweet  taste 
called  sugar  of  milk.  These  three  ingredients  taken 
away,  hardly  anything  is  left  but  water.  To  sepa- 
rate these  three,  one  proceeds  as  follows : 

"Left  standing  in  a  cool  place  and  exposed  to  the 
air,  milk  becomes  covered,  sooner  or  later,  accord- 
ing to  the  season,  with  a  thick  oily  layer  that  takes 
the  name  of  cream;  This  is  the  material  from  which 
butter  is  made.  It  rises  to  the  surface  unaided  and 
separates  when  simply  exposed  to  the  air.  It  is  re- 
moved with  a  skimmer. 

"What  is  left  is  skimmed  milk,  of  the  same  white- 
ness, the  same  appearance,  as  the  original  milk,  but 
deprived  of  its  fatty  matter.  Into  this  skimmed 
milk  let  us  pour  a  few  drops  of  some  acid,  lemon 
juice  for  example.  The  milk  turns  and  thick  white 
flakes  are  formed.  Those  flakes  are  the  curd,  the 
casein,  in  short  the  material  of  which  cheese  is  com- 
posed. 


MILK  297 

'  '  After  the  casein  has  been  removed  there  remains 
nothing  but  a  transparent  liquid  that  might  be  taken 
for  water  slightly  tinted  with  yellow.  This  liquid 
is  called  whey.  It  contains  little  besides  water  with 
a  small  quantity  of  sugar  of  milk  which  gives  it  a 
slightly  sweet  taste.  It  is  especially  in  Switzerland 
that  sugar  of  milk  is  obtained  on  a  large  scale  by 
the  evaporation  of  the  liquid  that  remains  after  re- 
moving the  cream  and  curds  from  the  milk.  In  spite 
of  its  name  this  substance  has  nothing  in  common 
with  ordinary  sugar,  the  white  loaf-sugar  we  use ;  it 
is  a  dull-white  substance,  rather  hard,  crunching 
under  the  teeth,  and  of  a  slightly  sugary  taste.  It 
is  used  only  in  pharmacy. 

"  Cream  and  casein  constitute  the  nutritive  ingre- 
dients of  milk,  and  determine  its  food  value.  The 
milk  that  is  richest  in  these  constituents  is  sheep's 
milk,  next  comes  goats'  milk,  and  last  of  all  cows' 
milk.  Although  of  little  value  to  us,  sugar  of  milk 
claims  our  attention  for  a  moment  on  account  of  the 
change  it  undergoes  to  the  great  detriment  of  the 
milk  itself.  Little  by  little,  especially  when  exposed 
to  the  heat  of  summer,  this  sugary  matter  sours 
and  becomes  an  acid.  That  is  what  makes  milk 
sour  if  kept  too  long.  Of  course  when  this  sourness 
shows  itself  the  milk  soon  curdles.  Coagulation 
takes  place  as  if  an  acid  had  been  added  to  the 
milk.  Hence,  to  keep  milk  for  some  time  and  prevent 
its  turning  sour  of  its  own  accord,  this  acidulation 
of  the  sugar  of  milk  must  be  delayed.  This  is  done 
by  taking  care  to  boil  the  milk  a  little  every  day." 


CHAPTEE  XXXI 

BUTTER 

"TT^ROM  milk,"  continued  Uncle  Paul,  "we  make 
JT  butter  and  cheese.  I  have  just  explained  to 
you  in  a  few  words  how  the  ingredients  composing 
them — that  is,  cream  and  casein — are  obtained  in 
their  separate  forms;  but  further  details  are  now 
called  for,  and  I  will  give  them  to  you,  beginning 
with  butter. 

"The  material  necessary  for  making  butter  is 
cream,  a  fatty  substance  disseminated  through  the 
milk  in  excessively  fine  and  almost  invisible  par- 
ticles. When  milk  is  left  undisturbed  in  a  cool  place 
and  exposed  to  the  air,  these  particles  of  fat  rise  to 
the  surface  little  by  little  and  collect  there  in  a  layer 
of  cream.  An  example  taken  from  things  familiar 
to  you  will  explain  the  cause  of  this  spontaneous 
separation. 

"Oil,  you  know,  cannot  in  any  way  be  made  to 
dissolve  in  water.  If  a  mixture  of  the  two  liquids 
is  well  shaken,  the  oil  divides  into  an  infinity  of  tiny 
globules  uniformly  distributed,  and  the  whole  takes 
on  a  whitish  tint  that  looks  something  like  milk. 
But  this  condition  is  only  temporary.  If  you  stop 
heating  or  shaking  the  mixture,  the  oil,  the  lighter 
part,  comes  to  the  surface,  globule  by  globule,  and 

298 


BUTTER  299 

soon  the  two  liquids  are  completely  separated,  the 
oil  on  top,  the  water  at  the  bottom.  If  a  little  gum 
were  added  to  the  water  to  make  it  sticky,  the  sepa- 
ration of  the  oil  would  be  less  easily  effected  and  the 
mixture  would  retain  its  milky  appearance  for  a 
longer  time;  nevertheless  the  two  liquids  would  al- 
ways end  by  separating. 

"The  fatty  matter  composing  butter  behaves  in 
the  same  way  as  the  oil  of  our  experiment.  It  is  not 
dissolved  by  the  milk ;  it  is  simply  divided  into  very 
minute  particles  that  are  held  in  place  by  a  liquid 
thickened  with  casein,  just  as  water  thickened  with 
gum  holds  for  a  long  time  the  tiny  drops  of  oil.  Left 
undisturbed  long  enough,  these  oily  particles  free 
themselves  and  rise  to  the  surf  ace. " 

"Cream  rises  to  the  top  of  milk,"  observed  Jules, 
"just  as  oil  that  has  been  shaken  up  with  water  rises 
to  the  surface;  only  the  separation  is  slower  on  ac- 
count of  the  casein  that  thickens  the  liquid." 

"That  is  the  secret  of  this  curious  separation. 
Milk  is  placed  in  large  earthen  nappies,  smaller  at 
the  bottom  than  at  the  top,  and  thus  a  large  surface 
is  exposed  to  the  cooling  action  of  the  air,  which 
hastens  the  separation  of  the  cream.  The  full 
nappy  is  put  in  a  cool  and  very  quiet  place.  In  sum- 
mer half  a  day  is  long  enough  for  the  rising  of  the 
cream ;  in  winter  it  takes  at  least  twenty-four  hours. 
When  the  separation  is  finished,  the  cream  is  re- 
moved with  a  skimmer  or  a  large  almost  flat  spoon. 

"Cream  is  yellowish  white,  oily  to  the  touch  on 
account  of  its  greasy  matter,  and  sweet  and  very 


300  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

pleasant  to  the  taste,  having  the  flavor  of  both  fresh 
butter  and  cheese.    It  is  most  delicious  eating/' 

"We  know  that,"  Emile  assented,  "from  those 
capital  sandwiches  Mother  Ambroisine  makes  for 
us  with  cream  on  feast  days." 

"That  delicacy,"  remarked  his  uncle,  "cannot  be 
allowed  every  day,  for  the  cream  is  needed  for  butter 
for  the  family." 

' '  Once  I  helped  Mother  Ambroisine  work  the  little 
butter  machine,  a  kind  of  small  cask  called  a  churn. 
Why  do  we  have  to  thump  so  long  to  get  the  butter!" 

"That  is  what  I  am  going  to  explain  to  you.  In 
cream  the  particles  of  butter  are  simply  grouped 
side  by  side,  without  forming  a  united  body.  Be- 
sides, a  layer  of  moisture,  coming  from  the  whey, 
isolates  them  and  prevents  their  uniting.  To  com- 
bine all  these  particles  into  a  compact  mass  of  but- 
ter, it  is  necessary  to  squeeze  out  the  milk  and  knead 
them  together.  This  is  accomplished  by  prolonged 
beating. 

' '  The  implement  used  is  called  a  churn.  The  sim- 
plest consists  of  a  kind  of  small  cask  larger  at  the 
bottom  than  at  the  top.  The  cover  is  pierced  with 
an  opening  through  which  runs  a  rod  carrying  a  per- 
forated wooden  disc  on  the  end  inside  the  churn. 
After  the  cream  has  been  poured  into  the  churn,  the 
operator  takes  the  rod  in  both  hands  and  vigorously 
raises  it  and  plunges  it  down  in  alternate  strokes, 
thus  causing  the  terminal  disc  to  rise  and  fall  in  the 
creamy  mass.  By  this  prolonged  beating  the  fatty 
particles  unite  and  become  butter.  Sometimes  the 


BUTTER  SOI 

churn  is  made  of  a  small  cask  in  which  turns  by 
means  of  a  crank  an  axle  bearing  perforated  wings 
or  blades  which  beat  the  cream  in  their  rotation. 

'  i  Some  precautions  must  be  taken  to  carry  this 
delicate  operation  through  successfully.  During 
the  heat  of  summer  churning  should  be  done  only 
in  the  morning  and  in  a  cool  place.  It  is  even  well 
to  set  the  churn  in  a  tub  of  cold  water.  If  this  is 
neglected  the  butter  may  turn  sour  in  the  process 
of  churning.  In  winter,  on  the  contrary,  the  churn 
should  be  kept  a  little  warm  by  wrapping  it  in 
warmed  cloths  and  working  it  near  the  fire.  Cold 
hardens  the  fatty  particles  and  prevents  their  unit- 
ing. If  nothing  is  done  to  raise  the  temperature 
enough  to  soften  them  they  will  be  slow  in  turning 
to  butter  and  the  operation  will  be  long. 

66  As  soon  as  all  the  fatty  particles  are  well  stuck 
together  the  butter  is  made.  It  is  taken  out  of  the 
churn  and  put  into  cold  water,  in  which  it  is  kneaded 
over  and  over  again  with  a  large  wooden  spoon  to 
press  out  the  whey  with  which  it  is  impregnated. 

"If  the  butter  is  to  be  eaten  soon,  it  suffices  to 
keep  it  in  water  that  is  changed  every  day  for  the 
sake  of  freshness  and  to  prevent  the  butter's  sour- 
ing. But  if  it  is  to  be  kept  for  a  long  time,  more 
thorough-going  means  of  preservation  are  neces- 
sary. The  most  simple  method  consists  in  knead- 
ing it  with  kitchen  salt,  well  dried  in  the  oven  and 
reduced  to  fine  powder.  After  salting,  the  butter  is 
put  in  earthen  jars  and  the  surface  covered  with  a 
layer  of  salt. 


302  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"  Another  way  to  keep  butter  is  to  melt  it.  I  must 
tell  you,  to  begin  with,  that  butter,  however  care- 
fully prepared  it  may  be,  always  contains  a  certain 
quantity  of  whey  and  casein.  These  are  the  sub- 
stances that,  changing  later  by  contact  with  the  air, 
make  butter  sour  and  finally  rancid.  If  the  fatty 
matter  were  all  by  itself,  if  it  could  be  completely 
rid  of  the  casein  and  whey  that  go  with  it,  we  could 
keep  it  much  longer.  This  result  is  attained  by 
melting. 

"The  butter  is  placed  in  a  kettle  over  a  bright  fire 
that  is  even  and  moderate.  Melting  soon  begins. 
The  moisture  of  the  whey  is  evaporated,  this  process 
being  hastened  by  stirring  the  melted  mass.  A  part 
of  the  casein  rises  to  the  surface  and  forms  a  scum 
which  is  removed ;  another  part  collects  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  kettle.  When  the  melted  butter  looks 
like  oil  and  when  a  drop  of  it  thrown  on  the  coals 
takes  fire  without  crackling,  thus  proving  that  it  is 
quite  free  from  moisture,  the  operation  is  finished. 
The  kettle  is  taken  off  the  fire,  the  liquid  is  left 
standing  a  few  minutes  to  give  the  casein  time  to 
settle  at  the  bottom,  and  finally  the  butter  is  poured 
by  spoonfuls  into  earthen  jars  carefully  dried  in  the 
oven.  These  jars  should  be  of  small  capacity  and 
narrow  opening,  so  as  to  prevent  as  much  as  possible 
the  access  of  air,  the  cause  of  change  in  all  our  food 
substances.  It  is  advisable  to  put  on  top  of  the  but- 
ter, as  soon  as  it  hardens,  a  layer  of  salt,  as  is  done 
with  salted  butter.  Finally  the  jars  are  closed  with 
parchment,  which  is  tied  on  with  string." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

EENNET 

"  TN  the  making  of  cheese  the  first  step  is  to  cause 
JL  the  milk  to  curdle.  Lemon  juice,  vinegar,  or 
any  other  acid  would  bring  about  this  result,  as  we 
have  already  seen ;  but  it  is  customary  to  make  use 
of  another  and  much  more  efficacious  liquid  called 
rennet.  Let  us  learn  first  what  this  liquid  consists 
of.  That  calls  for  certain  explanations  apparently 
foreign  to  our  subject,  but  nevertheless  leading  di- 
rectly to  it. 

Among  our  domestic  animals  three,  the  ox,  goat 
and  sheep,  are  remarkable  for  their  horns  and  split 
hoofs.  All  three  have  a  way  of  eating  very  different 
from  that  of  other  kinds  of  animals.  The  dog,  for 
example,  after  masticating 
its  food  sufficiently,  swal- 
lows it  once  for  all  and 
passes  it  into  a  single  diges- 
tive Cavity  Called  the  Stom-  Typical  Ruminant  Stomach 

ach,  where  it  becomes  a  fluid  mass  suitable  for  nu- 
trition. On  the  contrary,  the  goat,  sheep,  and  ox 
chew  and  swallow  the  same  food  twice;  at  two  dif- 
ferent times,  with  a  rather  long  interval  between, 
the  same  fodder  is  subjected  to  mastication  and 
passed  down  the  throat. 

303 


304  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

" Animals  are  characterized  as  l ruminant7  that, 
after  chewing  their  food  once  and  letting  it  pass  into 
the  digestive  cavity,  bring  it  back  into  the  mouth  for 
a  more  complete  trituration.  The  ox,  goat,  and 
sheep  are  ruminants.  Instead  of  only  one  stomach 
they  have  four,  that  is  to  say  four  membranous 
pouches  where  the  alimentary  matter  passes  from 
one  to  another  before  being  converted  into  a  sort  of 
nutritive  soup. 

"The  first  of  these  pouches  is  called  the  paunch. 
It  is  a  spacious  cavity  in  which  the  animal  accumu- 
lates the  fodder  that  has  been  hastily  browsed  and 
not  thoroughly  chewed.  Its  inside  surface  is  thickly 
covered  with  short  flat  filaments  that  give  it  the  ap- 
pearance of  coarse  velvet. 

"Watch  the  ox  and  sheep  in  the  pasture.  They 
crop  the  grass  without  stopping,  without  a  moment's 
rest ;  they  chew  very  slightly,  very  hastily,  and  then 
swallow;  one  mouthful  does  not  wait  on  another. 
It  is  the  time  for  filling  the  paunch  without  losing  a 
bite  by  prolonged  chewing.  Later,  in  the  hours  of 
repose,  there  will  be  leisure  for  bringing  up  again 
the  food  swallowed  and  for  grinding  it  to  the  proper 
fineness. 

"This  receptacle  known  as  the  paunch  having  re- 
ceived its  due  supply  of  fodder,  the  animal  retires  to 
a  quiet  spot,  lies  down  in  a  comfortable  position,  and 
takes  up  at  its  ease,  for  hours  at  a  time,  the  work  of 
chewing.  This  second  stage  in  the  preparation  of 
the  food  under  the  millstone  of  the  teeth  is  called 
rumination.  The  ox  is  then  seen  patiently  chewing, 


RENNET  305 

with  an  air  of  gentle  satisfaction,  without  taking 
anything  from  outside.  What  is  it  eating  thus, 
when  there  is  apparently  no  fodder  within  reach? 
It  is  re-eating  what  has  been  stored  up  in  the  paunch, 
and  which  now  comes  up  from  the  bottom  of  the 
stomach  in  little  mouthfuls.  Then  the  motion  of  the 
jaws  ceases,  the  mouthful  is  swallowed,  and  immedi- 
ately after  something  round  and  bulging  is  seen 
making  its  way  upward  under  the  skin  of  the  neck. 
It  is  a  fresh  alimentary  ball  coming  up  from  the 
paunch  to  the  mouth  to  be  chewed.  Ball  by  ball,  the 
mass  of  fodder  accumulated  in  the  paunch  comes 
back  thus  to  be  ground  by  the  teeth  to  the  right  de- 
gree of  fineness  and  then  swallowed  for  good." 

"That  's  a  clever  way  to  eat,"  was  Emile's  com- 
ment. ' '  In  order  not  to  lose  a  moment  of  their  time 
in  the  pasture,  the  sheep,  goat,  and  ox  do  not  stop 
to  do  their  chewing  there :  they  browse  without  stop- 
ping and  store  up  a  good  supply.  Then,  lying  down 
comfortably  in  the  shade,  they  bring  up  again  the 
contents  of  the  paunch  and  grind  it  at  their  ease, 
little  by  little." 

6 '  The  second  stomachic  cavity  is  called  the  reticu- 
lum,  its  inner  surface  presenting  a  reticulated  ap- 
pearance, with  an  arrangement  of  dentate  and  lami- 
nate folds  forming,  all  together,  an  elaborate  net- 
work of  meshes.  This  curious  formation  cannot  fail 
to  strike  you  if  you  look  for  a  moment  at  a  piece  of 
tripe,  one  of  our  countless  articles  of  food ;  for  what 
is  called  tripe  is  nothing  but  the  collective  stomach 
of  the  ox." 


306  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"I  remember  having  seen  that  beautiful  honey- 
comb network,"  said  Jules,  "and  the  coarse  velvet 
lining  of  the  paunch.  They  were  very  interesting. " 

"The  office  of  the  honeycomb  is  to  receive,  in 
small  portions,  the  food  already  somewhat  softened 
in  the  paunch,  and  to  mold  it  into  balls,  which  rise 
one  at  a  time  to  the  ruminant's  mouth.  That  in  fact 
is  where  the  alimentary  balls  are  made  that  we  see 
gliding  from  below  upward,  under  the  skin  of  the 
neck  of  the  ruminating  ox. 

"After  being  re-chewed  to  the  proper  fineness  the 
food  does  not  return  to  the  paunch,  where  it  would 
mix  with  material  not  yet  similarly  prepared ;  it  goes 
to  the  third  stomach,  or  manyplies,  so  named  on  ac- 
count of  its  numerous  and  wide  parallel  folds,  hav- 
ing some  resemblance  in  arrangement  to  the  leaves 
of  a  book. 

"From  the  manyplies  the  food  passes  finally  to  a 
fourth  and  last  stomach  called  the  rennet-bag. 
After  this  come  the  intestines.  Now  guess  whence 
we  get  that  significant  name  of  rennet,  knowing  as 
you  do  what  I  hare  especially  in  mind  in  this  con- 
nection?" 

"You  have  in  mind,"  answered  Jules,  "a  certain 
liquid,  rennet,  that  makes  milk  curdle  quickly.  The 
word  rennet,  or  runnet,  as  it  is  also  written,  must 
be  connected  with  the  verb  run,  in  the  sense  of  drop- 
ping, coagulating.  Can  it  be,  then,  that  from  this 
fourth  stomach  or  rennet-bag  of  ruminants  we  get 
the  liquid  rennet  that  is  used  for  curdling  milk?" 

"You  have  said  it  yourself,"  declared  Uncle  Paul, 


RENNET  307 

much  pleased  at  his  nephew's  clear  explanation  of 
the  matter.  "It  is  from  the  fourth  stomach  of  ru- 
minant animals  that  we  obtain  rennet,  the  most  effi- 
cacious substance  known  for  curdling  milk. 

"Preferably  it  is  the  rennet-bag  of  a  young  calf 
that  is  selected;  then  it  is  cleaned  carefully,  salted, 
and  dried.  Thus  treated,  it  keeps  a  long  time. 
When  it  is  required  for  use,  a  piece  as  large  as  your 
two  fingers  is  cut  off  and  put  to  soak  in  a  glass  of 
water  or  whey.  The  next  morning  two  or  three 
spoonfuls  of  this  liquid,  called  rennet,  is  added  to 
each  liter  of  milk.  In  a  very  short  time,  if  kept  mod- 
erately warm,  the  milk  turns  to  a  mass  of  fresh 
cheese." 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII 

CHEESE 

THE  chief  constituent  of  cheese  is  casein  coagu- 
lated by  the  action  of  rennet.  But,  prepared 
from  casein  alone,  cheese  would  be  coarse  and  almost 
tasteless,  and  when  dry  would  become  as  hard  as 
stone.  To  give  tenderness  and  flavor  to  the  paste- 
like  mass,  the  cream  is  commonly  retained  in  milk 
used  for  making  cheese.  The  casein  furnishes  the 
main  substance  of  the  product,  while  the  cream  con- 
tributes what  might  be  called  the  seasoning. 

"Hence  we  have  two  principal  varieties  of  cheese: 
one,  prepared  with  milk  from  which  the  cream  has 
been  taken,  contains  only  casein;  the  second,  made 
from  unskimmed  milk,  contains  both  casein  and 
cream.  The  first  kind,  known  as  cottage  cheese, 
white  cheese,  or,  more  expressively,  skim-milk 
cheese,  has  little  food  value  and  is  not  made  for  its 
own  sake,  but  in  order  to  put  to  some  use  the  milk 
that  has  already  served  to  make  butter.  The  second 
kind,  called  cream  cheese,  is  what  commonly  appears 
on  our  tables  in  different  varieties  and  varying  ap- 
pearance, according  to  the  quality  of  the  milk  and 
the  mode  of  preparation. 

"To  make  cheese  still  more  unctuous  and  to  give 

308 


CHEESE  309 

it  a  finer  flavor,  we  do  not  always  content  ourselves 
with  using  milk  in  its  natural  state;  to  the  cream 
that  it  naturally  contains  we  often  add  some  more 
from  milk  skimmed  expressly  for  the  purpose. 
The  cheeses  thus  enriched  with  fatty  matter  are  the 
most  delicate  of  all.  Again,  we  occasionally  adopt 
a  middle  course,  using  neither  natural  milk  nor  en- 
tirely creamless  milk,  but  of  two  equal  parts  of  milk 
we  keep  one  just  as  it  is  and  skim  the  other,  mixing 
them  together  afterward. 

"By  adding  or  withdrawing,  in  varying  quantities, 
this  fatty  constituent  of  the  milk,  we  obtain  as  many 
different  varieties  of  cheese.  If  also  we  bear  in 
mind  that  sheep's  milk  has  not  exactly  the  same 
properties  as  goats'  milk,  nor  goats'  milk  the  same 
properties  as  cows'  milk;  if  we  remember,  further, 
that  the  same  animal's  milk  varies  according  to  the 
nature  of  its  feed  and  the  care  given  to  the  herd ;  and 
if,  finally,  we  take  into  account  the  different  methods 
of  manufacture,  of  one  sort  in  one  place,  of  another 
sort  somewhere  else,  we  shall  understand  how  nu- 
merous may  be  and  in  fact  are  the  various  kinds  of 
cheese." 

"For  my  part,"  Jules  interposed,  "I  know  at 
least  half  a  dozen  kinds.  There  is  Eoquefort,  a 
pasty  cheese  streaked  with  blue  and  of  a  sharp 
flavor;  Gruyere,  riddled  with  large  round  holes  and 
yellowish  in  color,  and  clear  like  quartz ;  Auvergne, 
as  large  as  a  big  millstone  and  not  very  delicate  in 
flavor ;  Brie,  in  thin,  wide  cakes  that  sweat  a  kind  of 
ill-smelling  cream;  Mont  d'Or,  packed  with  a  little 


310  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

straw  in  a  round  deal  box ;  and  a  lot  of  others  that  I 
can't  remember  now." 

"  Jules  has  just  told  us  the  best  known  kinds  of 
cheese ;  I  will  add  a  few  words  on  the  way  they  are 
made. 

' '  Fresh  cheeses  are  those  that  are  eaten  soon  after 
being  made.  They  are  white  and  soft.  They  are 
made  of  either  skimmed  or  unskimmed  milk,  and 
in  the  latter  case  they  are  incomparably  better. 
When  the  rennet  has  brought  about  coagulation,  the 
curdled  milk  is  poured  into  round  molds  of  tin  or 
glazed  earthenware,  with  holes  in  the  bottom  for  the 
escape  of  the  whey  contained  in  the  curdled  mass. 
As  soon  as  this  has  drained  enough  and  is  sufficiently 
firm,  the  cheese  is  done,  and  it  is  taken  from  the 
mold  ready  for  the  table  without  any  other  prepara- 
tion." 

"That  's  the  cheese  I  like  best,"  Emile  declared. 
"It  's  the  kind  we  spread  on  slices  of  bread  to  make 
those  delicious  sandwiches." 

"That  is  very  true,  but  it  has  the  fault  of  not 
keeping  long.  In  a  few  days  it  turns  sour  and  un- 
eatable. All  the  other  cheeses  would  do  the  same, 
all  would  spoil  and  become  sour  if  certain  measures 
were  not  taken  to  prevent  this.  These  measures 
consist  in  the  use  of  salt,  which  is  rubbed  and 
sprinkled  on  the  outside  of  the  cheese,  and  some- 
times even  mixed  with  the  curd  itself.  All  cheeses, 
then,  that  are  to  be  kept  a  long  time  receive  more  or 
less  salt,  while  fresh  cheese  is  not  salted  at  all. 

"Of  these  salted  cheeses  some  are  soft,  some  hard. 


CHEESE  311 

That  of  Brie,  named  from  the  district  where  the 
best  is  made,  in  the  department  of  Seine-et-Marne, 
is  a  large  and  thin  soft  cake,  made  of  sheep's  milk. 
It  is  salted  on  both  sides  with  finely  powdered  salt, 
and  is  left  to  soak  for  two  or  three  days  in  the  salted 
liquid  that  drips  from  it.  The  salting  finished,  the 
cheeses  are  packed  in  a  cask  with  alternate  layers  of 
straw,  and  are  left  alone  for  several  months.  Then 
there  starts  a  kind  of  fermentation,  which  is  the  be- 
ginning of  putrefaction,  and  which  develops  new 
qualities.  The  curd  loses  its  odor  and  insipid  taste 
of  milk-food,  to  acquire  the  heightened  flavor  and 
strong  smell  of  cheese ;  its  mass  becomes  more  oily, 
even  partially  fluid,  and  changes  under  the  rind  to  a 
liquid  pap  of  creamy  appearance.  This  work  of 
modification  is  called  refining.  It  has  gone  just  far 
enough  when  the  liquid  part  under  the  rind  is  of  a 
pleasant  taste.  The  cheeses  are  then  taken  out  of 
the  cask  and  are  ready  for  eating. 

"This  first  example  shows  us  that  cheese  acquires 
its  peculiar  qualities  through  an  incipient  deteriora- 
tion. Before  this  putrefaction  sets  in  the  cheese  is 
simply  curd,  sweetish,  insipid,  without  pronounced 
odor;  after  this  process  it  has  the  odor,  the  taste,  in 
fact  all  that  is  required  to  make  it  really  cheese. 
But  the  putrefaction,  once  started  artificially,  does 
not  stop  where  we  should  like  it  to  stop.  It  goes  on 
all  the  time,  slowly  indeed  if  we  take  some  precau- 
tions, and  the  cheese,  smelling  more  and  more,  and 
tasting  stronger  and  stronger,  ends  by  becoming  a 
mass  of  rottenness.  All  cheese,  therefore,  when  it 


312  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

gets  too  old,  is  sure  at  last  to  go  bad;  it  spoils  by 
continuing  to  excess  the  kind  of  deterioration  that 
in  the  beginning  gave  it  precisely  the  qualities  de- 
sired. 

"From  its  appetizing  flavor  and  fine  texture 
Roquefort  is  the  king  of  cheeses,  the  prominent  fea- 
ture in  any  well-appointed  dessert.  Its  renown  ex- 
tends all  over  the  world. " 

"That  's  the  cheese  that  is  so  strong  and  takes  so 
much  bread  to  go  with  it!"  asked  Emile. 

"Yes,  that  is  it.  Its  pronounced  flavor  and  its 
blue  streaks  make  it  easy  to  recognize.  It  is  made 
in  a  village  of  Aveyron  called  Roquefort,  and  is  ob- 
tained from  sheep's  milk  only,  the  best  of  all  milk 
on  account  of  its  richness  in  casein  and  butter. ' ' 

"Brie  cheese  also,"  observed  Louis,  "is  made  of 
sheep's  milk;  yet  it  does  n't  compare  in  quality  with 
Roquefort." 

"That  marked  difference  shows  us  how  much  the 
method  of  making  it  determines  the  quality  of 
cheese.  You  have  just  seen  what  pains  are  taken 
with  Brie  cheese;  now  see  how  much  care  is  given 
to  Roquefort. 

"The  cakes  of  curd  are  not  thin  in  this  case,  but 
as  thick  as  they  are  wide.  They  are  stored  for 
months  in  grottoes  hollowed  in  the  heart  of  a  rock, 
either  by  nature  or  by  man,  in  the  environs  of  the 
village  of  Roquefort.  These  grottoes  are  remark- 
able for  the  strong  currents  of  air  that  circulate 
through  them,  and  for  the  coolness  of  their  tempera- 
ture. During  the  summer,  while  the  thermometer 


CHEESE  319 

outside  marks  thirty  degrees,1  it  shows  but  five  in- 
side the  cheese  caves.  The  difference  is  that  be- 
tween the  heat  of  an  oppressive  summer  and  the  cold 
of  a  severe  winter.  It  is  in  the  depths  of  these  cold 
caves  that  the  cheeses  acquire  their  peculiar  quali- 
ties. The  only  care  given  them  is  an  occasional 
rubbing  with  salt  and  a  scraping  of  their  surface  to 
remove  whatever  moldiness  may  have  developed. 
This  moldiness  even  gets  into  the  inside  by  degrees, 
where  it  forms  blue  veins.  But  that  is  in  no  way 
detrimental ;  on  the  contrary,  the  flavor  of  the  cheese 
gains  by  the  formation  of  this  mold,  which  is  merely 
another  kind  of  rotting  that  adds  its  energies  to 
those  of  the  usual  change  undergone  by  cheese. 
Hence  the  makers  are  not  content  with  letting  na- 
ture produce  these  signs  of  moldiness:  they  hasten 
the  process  by  mixing  with  the  fresh  curd  a  little 
powdered  moldy  bread.  The  cheese  would  be  bet- 
ter if  left  to  its  own  working,  but  this  addition  ac- 
celerates the  result,  and  to-day,  alas,  in  the  making 
of  Koquef  ort,  as  in  so  many  other  branches  of  in- 
dustry, there  is  greater  eagerness  for  quick  results 
than  for  excellence. 

4 '  The  cheese  called  Auvergne  is  made  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Cantal.  Cows'  milk  is  used.  When  the 
curd  has  formed,  the  dairyman,  legs  and  arms  bare, 
mounts  a  table  and  tramples  and  compresses  with 
feet  and  hands  the  mass  of  fresh  ^cheese  to  squeeze 
out  the  whey.  The  curd  is  then  separated,  mixed 
with  pounded  salt,  and  pressed  in  large  round  molds 

i  Centigrade,  not  Fahrenheit. — Translator. 


314  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

containing  up  to  fifty  kilograms.  These  enormous 
cheeses  are  finally  left  in  cellars  to  the  action  of  fer- 
mentation, which  perfects  them. 

"Gruyere  cheese  owes  its  name  to  a  little  village 
in  the  canton  of  Fribourg  in  Switzerland.  In  the 
Vosges,  Jura,  and  Ain  a  great  quantity  of  this 
cheese  is  made.  This  too  is  made  of  cows'  milk. 
The  milk,  after  a  third  of  its  cream  has  been 
skimmed  off,  is  slightly  warmed  in  large  kettles  over 
a  brisk  fire.  Then  the  rennet  is  poured  in.  When 
the  curd  has  formed,  it  is  separated  as  much  as  pos- 
sible by  being  stirred  in  the  kettle  with  a  wide 
paddle,  after  which  it  is  warmed  still  further. 
Finally  the  curd  is  collected,  placed  in  a  mold,  and 
subjected  to  strong  pressure.  The  cheese  thus  pro- 
duced is  next  rubbed  several  times  with  salt,  and 
then  stored  in  a  cellar  and  left  undisturbed  for  two 
or  three  months.  It  is  during  its  stay  in  the  cellar 
that  the  holes  or  eyes  characteristic  of  Gruyere 
cheese  make  their  appearance;  they  are  due  to 
bubbles  of  gas  released  from  the  fermenting  sub- 
stance of  the  cheese.  You  will  notice  in  the  mak- 
ing of  this  kind  of  cheese  the  application  of  heat. 
The  milk  is  warmed  over  the  fire  just  before  the 
rennet  is  added,  which  is  not  done  in  the  other  kinds. 
Hence  Gruyere  cheese  is  called  cooked  cheese. 

"If  kept  too  long,  all  cheeses  are  sooner  or  later 
invaded,  first  on  the  outside  and  then  within,  by 
mold,  yellowish  white  at  first,  then  blue  or  greenish, 
and  finally  brick  red.  At  the  same  time  the  cheese 
decays  and  acquires  a  repulsive  odor  and  a  taste  so 


CHEESE  315 

acrid  as  to  make  the  lips  sore.  The  cheese  is  then 
a  mere  mass  of  putrefaction  to  be  thrown  on  the 
dung-hill.  The  rate  of  decay  is  proportioned  to 
the  softness  of  the  cheese  and  its  permeability  by 
the  air.  Therefore,  in  order  that  it  may  keep  well, 
it  must  be  carefully  dried  and  also  reduced  to  a  com- 
pact mass  by  strong  pressure.  That  is  why  so  much 
force  is  exerted  in  pressing  the  large  cheeses  of 
Gruyere  and  Auvergne  in  their  molds.  But  it  is 
nothing  in  comparison  with  certain  cheeses,  called 
Dutch  cheeses,  which  are  noted  for  their  extraordi- 
nary lasting  qualities.  They  become  so  hard  and 
dry  that  before  they  can  be  eaten  they  sometimes 
have  to  be  broken  up  with  a  hammer  and  put  to 
soften  again  in  a  cloth  wet, with  white  wine." 

"  Those  very  hard  cheeses,  as  solid  as  a  rock, 
can't  be  of  much  use/'  commented  Emile. 

"That  is  where  you  are  mistaken.  Cooks  use 
this  hard  cheese  to  season  certain  dishes,  after  grat- 
ing it  to  a  powder.  It  is  also  in  favor  on  shipboard 
as  a  valuable  article  of  food  on  long  voyages.  The 
Dutch  cheese  is  round  like  a  ball,  and  has  a  reddish 
rind.  It  takes  its  name  from  the  country  where  it 
is  made." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   PIG 

is  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  do- 
A  mestic  pig  is  descended  from  one  or  another 
of  the  numerous  kinds  of  wild  boar  scattered  over 
Asia — perhaps  even  from  several  of  them.  But  the 
Asiatic  wild  boar  bears  so  close  a  resemblance  in 
shape  and  habits  to  the  European  that  it  will  suffice 
for  me  to  acquaint  you  with  the  latter  in  order  to 
give  you  a  correct  idea  of  the  former,  and  thus  show 
you  what  the  pig  must  have  been  in  its  primitive 
state. 

"Though  very  numerous  in  early  times  through- 
out the  forests  of  France,  wild  boars  are  from  day 
to  day  diminishing  in  number  with  us,  and  are 
destined  sooner  or  later  to  disappear  altogether,  as 
they  have  already  disappeared  from  England,  where 
they  have  now  been  exterminated  to  the  last  one,  as 
is  the  case  also  with  wolves.  This  complete  exter- 
mination is  explained  by  the  situation  of  the  coun- 
try. England  is  entirely  surrounded  by  the  sea. 
If  then  the  wolf  and  boar,  hunted  down  as  two  un- 
desirable neighbors,  are  at  last  entirely  destroyed, 
the  two  species  are  forever  annihilated  in  the  island, 
since  the  sea  interposes  an  impassable  barrier 
against  new  arrivals." 

316 


THE  PIG  317 

"That  is  perfectly  clear,"  assented  Emile.  "As 
soon  as  the  last  wolf  and  boar  have  been  killed,  the 
English,  protected  by  the  sea  that  surrounds  them, 
are  rid  of  these  animals  once  for  all." 

"If  we  could  only  rid  ourselves  of  wolves  like 
that!"  Louis  exclaimed.  "Gladly  would  I  see  the 
skin  of  the  last  one  stuffed  with  straw  and  paraded 
from  farm  to  farm.  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  boar, 
as  I  don't  know  its  manner  of  living." 

"The  wild  boar  is  also  a  formidable  foe,  not  to 
flocks,  but  to  cultivated  fields,  where  it  does  great 
damage;  besides,  it  is  a  brutal  beast,  rather  dan- 
gerous to  meet  in  the  depths  of  a  forest.    In  size 
and  shape  it  closely  resembles  the  common  pig,  the 
chief  difference  being  in  the  boar's  coarse,  blackish- 
red  coat;  its  dorsal  bristles,  stiff  and  strong  and 
standing  up  in  anger  in  a  horrible  looking  mane ;  its 
head,  longer  and  more  curved;  its  ears,  smaller, 
more  erect,  and  very  mobile;  its  thick  and  shorter 
legs ;  and,  finally,  the  great  stockiness  of  the  body  as 
a  whole.     The  eyes  are  small  but  not  without  expres- 
sion, becoming  quite  fiery  and  ferocious  in  anger. 
The  eye-teeth  of  each  jaw  project  in  a  threatening 
manner  beyond  the  lips,  the  lower  ones  being  very 
long,   with   a  backward   curve,   sharp    edges,    and 
pointed  ends,  the  upper  ones  shorter  and  rubbing 
against  the  first  in  such  a  manner  as  to  serve  them 
as   whetstones.     From  this   peculiar  function  the 
upper  tusks  are  in  fact  sometimes  likened  to  grind- 
stones and  hence  go  by  the  name  of  grinders,  while 
the  lower  tusks,  terrible  in  combat,  are  called  de 


318  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

fenders.  With  its  powerful  muzzle  or  snout  the 
boar  strikes  and  overthrows  an  opponent;  with  its 
sharp  tusks  it  rips  open  and  disembowels.  The  fe- 
male, or  sow,  has  no  tusks,  but  her  bite  is  most  for- 
midable ;  she  accompanies  it  with  a  ferocious  gnash- 
ing of  the  teeth  and  an  infuriated  stamping  of  the 
hoofs  that  would  alone  prove  fatal  to  the  trampled 
adversary.  The  cry  of  both  consists  in  an  obstrep- 
erous snort,  a  signal  of  alarm  and  surprise ;  but  ex- 
cept in  case  of  danger  the  brute  is  usually  silent. 

"The  wild  boar  is  fond  of  vast  forests,  in  which  it 
seeks  the  darkest  and  most  retired  spots  where  it 
will  not  be  disturbed  by  man's  presence.  In  the 
daytime  it  lies  in  its  retreat  or  lair  amid  the  thick- 
est of  brushwood  and  bushes.  In  the  neighborhood 
there  is  generally  some  sort  of  muddy  pool  where  it 
wallows  with  delight.  Toward  nightfall  it  leaves  its 
retreat  in  search  of  food.  With  its  snout  it  plows 
the  ground,  always  in  a  straight  line,  to  unearth 
fleshy  roots ;  it  gathers  the  fruit  fallen  to  the  ground, 
the  kernels  of  cereals,  also  chestnuts,  beech-nuts, 
hazel-nuts,  and  acorns,  especially  the  last,  its  favor- 
ite food.  But  a  vegetable  diet  fails  to  satisfy  its 
voracity.  If  it  knows  of  a  fish-pond,  it  plows  up  the 
banks  to  get  the  eels  lurking  in  the  mud;  if  it  knows 
of  a  rabbit-burrow,  it  ransacks  it  by  hollowing  out  a 
deep  ditch  and  upturning  stones  with  its  powerful 
snout.  It  surprises  the  partridge  on  its  nest  and 
devours  mother  and  brood;  it  crunches  young  rab- 
bits in  their  snug  retreat;  it  lays  hold  of  young 
fawns  in  their  sleep.  Finally,  if  live  prey  is  want- 


THE  PIG  319 

ing,  it  gorges  itself  with  carrion.  The  whole  night 
is  passed  in  predatory  raids  of  this  sort,  after  which 
the  beast  regains  its  lair  at  the  dawn  of  day. 

"A  wild  sow's  litter  numbers  from  three  to  eight 
little  ones,  sometimes  called  grice.  They  are  white, 
with  tawny  or  brown  stripes  running  lengthwise. 
At  the  age  of  six  months  their  hair  becomes  darker, 
a  sort  of  dirty  gray,  and  they  outgrow  the  name  of 
grice.  When  two  years  old  their  tusks  begin  to  be 
dangerous,  and  at  an  age  ranging  from  three  to  five 
years  the  animal  attains  its  maximum  size  and 
strength  and  is  entitled  to  the  name  of  wild  boar. 
After  this,  until  twenty-five  or  thirty,  the  ordinary 
limit  of  its  life,  it  is  called  an  old  boar  or  an  old  her- 
mit, on  account  of  the  isolation  in  which  it  lives. 
Then  the  tusks  become  blunted  and  turn  in  toward 
the  eyes. 

1 '  Boar-hunting  is  not  without  its  dangers.  If  the 
boar  finds  itself  hard  pressed  by  the  pack  of  hounds 
pursuing  it,  the  animal  takes  refuge  in  some  dense 
thicket  of  brambles  and  holly,  and  forces  a  passage 
through  the  thorny  rampart  where  no  other  would 
dare  to  penetrate.  Through  the  opening  thus  made 
rush  the  dogs,  vying  with  one  another  in  ardor  and 
in  barking.  There  are  eight,  twelve,  fifteen  of  them ; 
no  matter,  the  boar  awaits  with  firmness  its  numer- 
ous assailants.  Backing  up  against  a  gnarled  stump 
which  protects  it  in  the  rear,  it  sharpens  its  tusks 
and  works  its  drivelling  jaws.  Its  mane  stands 
erect  on  head  and  back ;  its  little  eyes,  inflamed  with 
fury,  resemble  two  glowing  coals.  The  boldest  dogs 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

rush  to  seize  it  by  the  ears ;  it  disperses  them  with 
a  few  vigorous  blows  from  its  snout,  dealt  with 
startling  promptness.  Some  fall  back  with  belly 
split  open,  from  which  the  entrails  protrude  and 
catch  on  the  bushes;  others  have  a  leg  broken,  a 
shoulder  dislocated,  or  at  least  one  or  two  flesh 
wounds.  The  dying  stretch  their  legs  in  the  last 
convulsions  of  agony,  the  wounded  howl  with  pain, 
the  least  crippled  beat  a  hasty  retreat.  But  rein- 
forcements arrive,  bringing  back  the  fugitives  to 
the  charge.  Then,  from  the  midst  of  the  thicket,  an 
indescribable  uproar  is  heard.  To  the  cries  of  the 
pack,  howling,  barking,  and  growling  in  various 
keys,  and  to  the  wild  boar's  grunts  of  rage,  are 
added  the  crashing  sound  of  underbrush  broken  in 
the  fierce  scrimmage  and  the  shrill  notes  of  the  mag- 
pies that  have  flown  in  all  haste  to  the  scene  of  tu- 
mult and  from  the  surrounding  tree-tops  noisily 
discuss  the  event.  Finally  the  boar  emerges  from 
the  thicket  and,  drunk  with  carnage,  takes  its  turn  as 
pursuer.  Woe  then  to  the  inexperienced  hunter 
who  loses  his  presence  of  mind  or  whose  shot  misses 
its  mark :  he  might  forfeit  his  life  for  his  unwariness 
and  lack  of  skill.  But  let  us  hope  that  a  bullet,  clev- 
erly aimed  between  the  beast's  eyes,  will  put  an  end 
to  a  battle  that  has  already  cost  the  lives  of  the  best 
dogs  in  the  pack." 

"I  see  that  this  is  no  tame  rabbit-hunt, "  said 
Jules.  "If  any  one  should  come  within  reach  of  the 
fierce  brute  that  the  dogs  are  worrying,  he  would  not, 
as  they  say,  have  much  of  a  picnic." 


THE  PIG 

"  Nevertheless  there  are  men  of  dauntless  cour- 
age who  go  straight  for  the  furious  beast  and  plunge 
their  hunting  knife  into  its  heart.  But  usually  the 
thing  is  attended  with  less  peril  and  with  no  such 
atrocious  ripping-up  of  the  dogs,  a  sport  for  the 
grand  seigneurs.  Ambushed  in  a  safe  place,  the 
hunter  awaits  the  boar  and  gives  it  a  couple  of  bul- 
lets as  it  passes;  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.  If  the 
attack  is  less  spectacular,  at  least  it  spares  the  life  of 
the  dog  and  does  not  endanger  man's/' 

"Then  I  give  it  preference, "  Jules  declared, 
"to  that  in  which  a  whole  pack  might  be  killed. 
I  don't  like  that  slaughter  of  dogs,  with  the  boar's 
tusks  ripping  them  open  there  in  the  underbrush." 

"And  what  do  they  do  with  the  beast  after  they 
have  killed  him?"  asked  Louis. 

"It  is  a  piece  of  game,"  replied  Uncle  Paul,  "that 
surpasses  anything  else  to  be  found  in  our  woods. 
Such  a  boar,  old  hermit-boar,  as  we  call  him,  may 
weigh  as  much  as  two  hundred  kilograms.  That  is 
enough  for  a  feast,  I  should  hope,  and  all  the  more 
so  as  the  flesh  is  excellent.  The  piece  of  honor  is 
the  head,  the  famous  boar's  head. 

"The  Asiatic  wild  boar,  from  which  the  domestic 
pig  descends,  does  not  differ  from  ours  in  its  habits ; 
it  is,  like  ours,  a  ferocious,  coarse,  vigorous,  bold, 
voracious  animal,  a  formidable  creature  to  encounter 
in  the  dark  woods.  How  has  this  intractable  beast 
become  the  pig  that  we  raise?  By  what  care,  what 
gentle  treatment,  has  it  been  made  to  lose  its  ancient 
savagery?  To  these  questions  there  is  no  further 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

answer  than  in  the  case  of  the  dog  and  the  ox.  After 
centuries  and  centuries  of  domestication,  the  first 
steps  in  this  process  of  redemption  from  the  wild 
state  have  become  lost  in  oblivion. 

"  Despite  all  its  improvement  the  pig  still  remains 
a  coarse  animal,  resembling  the  wild  boar  in  more 
than  one  trait.  Like  the  latter,  it  feeds  on  anything 
and  everything;  and  even  more  than  the  latter  is  it 
addicted  to  gluttony.  The  perils  attending  its  wild 
state  no  longer  existing,  it  devotes  itself  unreserv- 
edly to  the  gratification  of  its  voracious  appetite. 
The  pig  is  a  fat-factory :  it  lives  only  to  eat,  digest, 
and  fatten.  Its  gluttony  extends  even  to  the  de- 
vouring of  kitchen  refuse,  greasy  dishwater,  nasty 
leavings,  garbage;  in  fact  everything  even  to  ex- 
crementitious  matter.  Ill  effects  can  result  from  its 
nosing  about  in  filth  to  satisfy  its  gluttony,  since  it 
is  thus  liable  to  a  horrible  disease  of  which  we  will 
speak  later.  Not  satisfied  with  acorns  and  other 
viands  that  go  to  fill  its  trough,  it  turns  up  the  earth 
with  its  snout  in  quest  of  roots,  worms,  and  fat 
larvae.  It  is  always  either  sleeping,  stretched  out  on 
its  side  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  digestion,  or  root- 
ing in  the  ground  in  the  hope  of  some  chance  ad- 
ditional tidbit,  however  small.  In  the  cultivated 
fields,  in  prairies  and  grass-lands,  devastation  makes 
rapid  progress  with  such  a  miner  tearing  up  the 
ground.  To  check  this  mania  for  excavating,  the 
end  of  the  snout  is  pierced  with  two  holes  through 
each  of  which  is  passed  a  piece  of  iron  wire,  which 
is  then  bent  into  a  ring. ' ' 


THE  PIG 

"Oh,  I  know,"  cried  Jules.  "I  have  often  seen 
little  rings  of  iron  wire  at  the  end  of  a  pig's  snout. 
I  did  n't  know  what  they  were  for,  but  now  I  see.  If 
the  pig  wants  to  dig,  the  iron  wire  is  pressed  against 
the  earth  and  bruises  the  raw  flesh  through  which  it 
passes;  and  the  pain  forces  the  animal  to  stop." 

"Yes,  that  is  the  part  played  by  the  rings  fixed 
in  the  end  of  the  snout." 

"And  we  see  pigs,  too,  with  a  kind  of  large  wooden 
triangle  around  the  neck,"  Emile  put  in. 

"As  the  pig  is  not  very  tractable  and  pays  little 
heed  to  the  drover's  voice,  it  is  customary,  when  a 
number  of  these  animals  are  taken  to  the  fields,  to 
put  around  their  neck  a  large  triangular  wooden 
collar,  which  prevents  their  getting  through  hedges 
and  overrunning  the  neighboring  cultivated  fields. 

"The  pig's  gluttony  is  proverbial.  But  let  us  be- 
ware of  reproaching  it  for  this.  Its  voracious  appe- 
tite transmutes  into  savory  meat  and  fat  quantities 
of  refuse  that  none  of  the  other  domestic  animals 
would  eat,  and  that  would  be  wasted  but  for  its  in- 
tervention; out  of  otherwise  worthless  scraps  its 
strong  stomach,  which  turns  at  nothing,  makes  those 
delectable  articles  of  food  so  much  enjoyed  by  all  of 
you  when  they  appear  in  the  form  of  sausages  and 
sausage-cakes.  Let  us  not  reproach  it,  either,  for  its 
passionate  love  of  mud,  in  which  it  wallows  to  reduce 
its  temperature.  In  that  it  simply  inherits  the  hab- 
its of  its  ancestor,  the  wild  boar,  which  also  delights 
in  the  luxury  of  a  mud-bath.  Besides,  it  is  more  our 
fault  than  the  pig's  taste.  The  pig  likes  a  cold  bath ; 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

it  submits  with  every  indication  of  satisfaction  to  be- 
ing washed  and  brushed  by  its  keeper.  So  fond  is 
it  of  cleanliness  that  it  alone  of  all  the  domestic  ani- 
mals hesitates  to  soil  its  bed  with  its  excrement. 
Why  then  does  the  word  pig  suggest  the  idea  of 
dirtiness?  Here  we  are  to  blame,  more  often  than 
not.  Let  the  pig  be  given  clean  water  for  its  bath, 
and  it  will  turn  its  back  on  the  foul  mud  that  it  con- 
tents itself  with  for  want  of  something  better ;  let  its 
premises  be  kept  clean,  and  the  poor  animal  will  be 
highly  delighted,  much  preferring  a  sanitary  straw 
bed  to  a  filthy  hole.  By  these  attentions  to  cleanli- 
ness the  animal  will  be  the  gainer,  and  we  shall  profit 
likewise. 

"In  lifetime  the  pig  is  of  no  use  to  us,  unless  it 
be  in  hunting  for  truffles,  an  exercise  in  which  it  ex- 
cels by  reason  of  the  extraordinary  development  of 
its  nose  and  the  keenness  of  its  scent.  Yet  even  for 
this  service  the  dog  is  preferred,  as  being  better 
fitted  for  exploring  uneven  ground,  more  active,  and 
more  intelligent.  It  is  after  its  death  that  the  pig 
pays  us  for  the  care  bestowed  upon  it.  Let  us  be 
present  at  this  event,  a  festive  occasion  for  the  fam- 

iiy. 

"  Fattened  for  a  long  time  on  potatoes,  excellent 
for  making  flesh,  and  on  acorns,  which  give  firmness 
and  savor  to  the  meat,  the  porker  can  hardly  stand 
on  its  short  legs.  It  sleeps  and  digests  in  a  reclin- 
ing posture,  lying  lazily  on  its  side.  From  its  neck 
hang  three  and  four  great  cushions  of  fat;  under 
its  belly  are  seen  ponderous  masses  of  lard;  the 


THE  PIG  325 

rump  is  well  rounded,  the  back  padded  with  fat. 
The  animal  is  ripe  for  the  knife.  At  the  break  of 
day  it  is  aroused  from  its  sweet  repose  and  sacri- 
ficed in  the  midst  of  piercing  cries  of  protest  against 
so  cruel  a  fate.  With  torches  of  burning  straw  the 
bristles  are  burnt  off,  after  which  the  body  is  well 
scraped  and  washed,  then  opened  and  cut  up.  Now 
the  housewife  proceeds  to  the  work  of  salting  and 
curing  this  rich  store  of  provision.  Every  member 
of  the  family  comes  to  her  aid.  Here,  over  a  big 
fire,  in  a  resplendent  copper  kettle,  the  lard  is  tried 
out  and  poured  into  pots,  where  it  hardens  and  turns 
as  white  as  snow.  Yonder  the  black  puddings  are 
hardening  in  boiling  water.  Over  there  some  one  is 
busily  plying  a  big  chopping-knif  e,  mincing  the  meat 
that  is  to  go  into  sausages,  which  will  be  wound  in 
a  long  garland  about  two  laths  and  hung  from  the 
ceiling  opposite  the  fireplace  to  get  a  good  drying. 
In  still  another  place  the  ham  is  being  made  ready 
for  wrapping  in  linen  and  hanging  in  a  corner  under 
the  chimney  mantel  to  assure  its  preservation.  On 
a  screen  are  spread  the  most  important  parts  of  the 
animal,  the  chine  and  flanks,  covered  with  a  layer 
of  salt.  And  the  housewife  rs  heart  is  filled  with  con- 
tent as  she  views  her  cupboards  and  larders  stored 
with  provisions  for  a  year  to  come. 

"Now,  these  provisions,  on  which  the  housekeep- 
er's hopes  are  based,  would  speedily  decay  and  be- 
come unfit  for  food  without  the  use  of  salt.  A  piece 
of  meat  left  to  itself  soon  gives  out  a  bad  smell  and 
undergoes  putrefaction.  The  higher  the  tempera- 


326  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

ture  and  the  damper  the  air,  the  more  rapid  the  rate 
of  decay.  That  is  why  the  approach  of  winter  and 
as  far  as  possible  a  dry  time  are  chosen  for  the  an- 
nual pig-killing.  Salt  in  liberal  quantities  is  used 
for  preserving  the  meat,  lard,  and  fat.  Salted  meat 
dries  without  becoming  tainted,  and  keeps  for  a  long 
time,  though  not  indefinitely,  since  sooner  or  later  it 
turns  rancid.  Nevertheless  salting  is  the  best  way 
to  preserve  meat. 

"Another  process,  discovered  long  ago  and  very 
efficacious,  consists  in  exposing  the  meat  to  the  ac- 
tion of  smoke  from  burning  wood.  That  is  why 
salted  hams  are  hung  in  the  chimney-corner.  But 
on  the  farm  it  usually  happens  that  too  little  atten- 
tion is  paid  to  this  method  of  curing:  it  is  deemed 
sufficient  to  place  the  hams  within  reach  of  the  smoke 
from  the  fireplace  without  any  covering  to  protect 
them.  Hence  the  meat  becomes  covered  with  soot, 
black  juices  permeate  it,  and  putrefaction  sets  in. 
To  avoid  this  mishap  it  is  enough  to  wrap  the  hams 
in  two  layers  of  linen,  which  sifts  the  smoke,  keeps 
out  the  soot,  and  admits  only  the  vapors  really 
adapted  to  the  preservation  of  the  meat  without 
blackening  it  and  giving  it  a  disagreeable  taste. 

"In  various  countries,  Germany  and  England  for 
example,  smoking  is  practised  on  a  large  scale  for 
curing  beef  as  well  as  pork.  Three  or  four  rooms 
with  low  ceilings  and  communicating  with  one  an- 
other by  means  of  openings  are  connected  with  a  fire- 
place at  some  distance,  in  which  oak  shavings  and 
aromatic  plants  are  burnt.  The  largest  pieces  are 


THE  PIG  327 

hung  in  the  first  room  on  poles  or  iron  hooks,  the  me- 
dium-sized pieces  are  hung  in  the  second,  and  the 
smallest  are  relegated  to  the  last  room.  The  smoke, 
on  account  of  the  comparative  remoteness  of  the  fire- 
place, is  cold  when  it  reaches  the  first  compartment, 
where  it  acts  with  full  force  on  the  large  pieces  of 
meat,  the  hardest  to  penetrate.  Thence  it  passes  to 
the  second  compartment,  and  finally  to  the  third, 
thus  in  proportion  to  its  loss  of  strength  encounter- 
ing pieces  less  resistant  to  its  action.  As  food, 
smoked  meat  is  preferable  to  salted :  it  tastes  better 
and  is  easier  to  digest. 

"  Smoking  is  also  applied  to  fish.  You  have  a 
well-known  example  in  the  herring.  This  fish,  as 
it  comes  from  the  grocer,  is  sometimes  silvery  white, 
sometimes  golden  red.  In  the  first  state  he  calls  it 
white  herring;  in  the  second,  red  herring.  The  dif- 
ference is  in  the  way  it  is  cured.  Directly  after  be- 
ing caught,  the  herrings  are  opened,  cleaned,  washed, 
and  put  to  soak  in  brine,  that  is  to  say  in  a  strong  so- 
lution of  salt.  About  fifteen  hours  later  they  are 
taken  out,  put  to  drip,  and  finally  packed  in  casks  in 
regular  layers.  The  product  of  this  process  is  the 
white  herring,  so  named  because  the  fish,  simply 
salted  and  put  up  in  casks,  keeps  its  beautiful  silvery 
color.  Smoking  produces  the  so-called  red  herring, 
recognizable  from  its  golden-yellow  tint  and  smoky 
smell.  The  fresh  fish  are  first  of  all  strongly  salted 
by  being  left  thirty  hours  in  the  brine ;  then  they  are 
attached  to  small  twigs  or  branches  passed  through 
the  gills,  after  which  they  are  hung  in  a  sort  of  fire- 


328  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

place  where  green  wood  is  burnt,  which  gives  out 
little  flame  and  torrents  of  smoke.  It  is  here  that 
the  herring  takes  on  its  red  color  and  its  slightly 
smoky  smell." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

PIG'S   MEASLES 

JEAN  had  come  to  market  to  sell  his  pig;  Math- 
ieu,  on  his  part,  had  gone  thither  to  buy  one. 
Jean's  animal  pleased  him.  After  some  talk  in 
which  all  sorts  of  finesse  were  employed  on  the  part 
of  the  seller  to  heighten  the  value  of  his  merchandise, 
on  the  part  of  the  buyer  to  lower  it,  they  came  to  an 
agreement  on  the  price  and  shook  hands  to  bind  the 
bargain. 

But  before  taking  out  his  purse  and  counting 
out  the  crowns  Mathieu  wished,  as  was  his  right,  to 
make  sure  that  the  pig  was  sound.  A  man  was 
called  whose  business  it  was  to  decide  such  ques- 
tions. He  took  the  animal  by  the  legs  and  threw  it 
over  on  its  side.  Whereas  Jean  and  Mathieu  stood 
in  some  awe  of  the  animal,  he  made  no  ceremony 
about  forcing  a  stick,  as  a  sort  of  lever,  between  the 
pig's  teeth  and  prying  the  jaws  apart.  Then  he 
plunged  his  hand  in  between  those  terrible  jaws  and 
felt  about  with  his  fingers  to  the  right,  to  the  left, 
and  especially  under  the  tongue.  Meanwhile  the  pig 
was  giving  forth  heartbreaking  cries,  and  with  rau- 
cous grunts  all  its  companions  in  the  market  voiced 
their  sympathy  in  its  distress.  The  whole  square 
was  in  an  uproar.  The  ordeal  over,  the  animal  was 

329 


330  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

let  loose  and  immediately  everything  became  quiet 
again.  The  pig  was  found  to  be  in  good  condition. 

Emile  was  passing  at  the  time  of  this  perform- 
ance. What  are  they  doing  to  that  poor  animal  with 
the  big  stick  thrust  between  its  jaws  ?  Why  are  they 
feeling  in  its  mouth?  Could  n't  they  leave  the  crea- 
ture in  peace  instead  of  making  it  squeal  worse  than 
if  they  were  slaughtering  it?  Such  were  the  ques- 
tions that  passed  through  Emile 's  mind  as  he  found 
himself  almost  seized  with  terror  at  the  piercing 
cries  of  the  animal  and  the  chorus  of  alarmed  grunts 
from  its  companions.  In  the  evening  the  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  this  event. 

"The  man  who  felt  with  his  hand  in  the  pig's 
mouth, "  Uncle  Paul  explained,  "while  the  stick  kept 
the  formidable  jaws  apart,  had  a  definite  purpose, 
which  was  to  assure  himself  that  the  animal  was  free 
from  measles.  For  the  pig  is  subject  to  a  strange 
disease  thus  named,  which  makes  its  flesh  unwhole- 
some and  even  dangerous.  When  the  animal  is  af- 
flicted with  this  malady,  its  flesh  is  filled  with  a  mul- 
titude of  round  white  granules  from  the  size  of  a  pin- 
head  to  that  of  a  pea,  or  larger ;  these  granules  are 
called  hydatids.  Their  number  is  sometimes  so 
great  that  in  a  piece  of  fat  no  larger  than  the  five 
fingers  of  my  hand  they  can  be  counted  by  hundreds. 
To  determine  whether  a  pig  is  thus  affected,  it  is  of 
course  out  of  the  question  to  explore  the  flesh  of  the 
living  body.  What  do  they  do  then?  They  feel  the 
soft  parts  accessible  to  the  hand — the  walls  of  the 
mouth  and  especially  the  under  side  of  the  tongue,  a 


PIG'S  MEASLES  331 

favorite  haunt  of  the  hydatids.  If  hard  granules 
are  felt  by  the  fingers,  the  pig  is  affected  and  its 
market  value  greatly  lowered;  if  no  such  granules 
are  found,  the  animal  is  healthy  and  will  bring  its 
full  price.  That  is  the  reason  of  the  operation  that 
so  puzzled  Emile  this  morning  in  the  market.  The 
man  that  was  feeling  of  the  animal's  tongue  was  an 
inspector.  His  office  is  to  examine  all  pigs  offered 
for  sale  and  to  determine  from  the  feeling  of  the 
tongue  whether  the  animal  has  the  measles.  Hence 
he  is  commonly  called  a  tongue-tester,  a  word  that 
will  now  explain  itself  to  you. ' r 

"I  see  very  well,"  Jules  interposed,  "how  the 
word  came  to  be  used  in  connection  with  the  exam- 
ination of  the  pig's  tongue,  but  I  don't  yet  in  the 
least  understand  how  those  hard  white  granules  that 
the  tongue-tester  looks  for,  those  hydatids  as  you 
call  them,  can  make  the  meat  unwholesome  and  dan- 
gerous. ' y 

"You  will  soon  see.  Each  of  those  granules  is  a 
lodge,  a  cell,  a  little  chamber  if  you  like,  in  which 
lives  a  sort  of  worm,  richly  fed  by  the  pig's  animal 
substance.  You  are  familiar  with  the  worm  that 
inhabits  the  juicy  pulp  of  cherries,  with  the  one  that 
gnaws  the  kernel  of  nuts,  with  the  one  that  makes  its 
home  in  the  heart  of  the  pear  and  apple,  and  with 
countless  others  in  fact  that  I  told  you  about  when 
we  were  on  the  subject  of  harmful  insects.  Well, 
fruit  is  not  the  only  thing  to  harbor  such  troublesome 
guests ;  every  animal  has  its  parasites  to  devour  it 
while  it  is  still  alive.  The  pig  in  its  turn  has  a  great 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

many,  especially  when  its  gluttonous  habits  lead  it 
to  feed  on  excrement.  One  of  these  parasites  is  the 
worm,  I  have  mentioned. 

"It  is  the  most  curious  creature  one  could  pos- 
sibly imagine.  Picture  to  yourselves  a  little  bladder 
full  of  liquid  as  clear  as  water;  on  this  bladder  a 
very  short  and  wrinkled  neck ;  finally,  at  the  extrem- 
ity of  this  neck  a  round  head  bearing  on  the  sides 
four  suckers  and  at  the  end  thirty-two  hooks  ar- 
ranged in  the  shape  of  a  crown  in  a  double  ring. 
That  is  the  worm,  the  hydatid.  Each  one  is  enclosed 
in  a  sort  of  little  pouch,  a  firm  and  semi-transparent 
cell  which  derives  its  substance  from  the  flesh  of  the 
pig  itself.  Commonly  the  tiny  creature  is  entirely 
hidden  in  its  snug  retreat;  at  other  times,  through 
an  opening  in  the  pouch,  it  stretches  its  neck  and 
pushes  its  head  out  a  little,  doubtless  to  feed  on  the 
adjacent  fluid  matter  by  means  of  its  four  suckers. 
As  to  the  little  bladder  forming  the  other  part  of 
the  worm,  it  never  leaves  its  cell,  the  cavity  of  which 
it  fills  exactly.  Hence  the  animal  never  changes  its 
place." 

"That  must  be  a  very  dull  sort  of  life,"  was  Em- 
ile's  comment.  "No  exercise  for  the  little  worm  ex- 
cept occasionally  sticking  its  head  out  of  the  bag 
that  holds  it,  and  then  drawing  it  in  again  and  shut- 
ting the  door.  Is  this  bag  very  large!" 

"There  are  different-sized  ones,  according  to  the 
worm's  degree  of  development,  for  as  it  grows  its 
dwelling  also  becomes  larger.  The  usual  shape  of 
these  cells  is  that  of  a  small  egg,  the  greatest  dimen- 


PIG'S  MEASLES  333 

sion  of  which  might  be  as  much  as  two  centimeters, 
and  the  smallest  five  or  six  millimeters. 

*  '  Hydatids  live  in  the  flesh  of  a  live  pig ;  they  live 
there  by  thousands  and  thousands,  in  such  multi- 
tudes that  sometimes  not  a  piece  of  fat  the  size  of  a 
nut  could  be  found  free  from  these  little  parasites. 
Each  one,  snugly  ensconced  in  its  retreat,  its 
strongly-walled  cell,  grows  in  peace,  sheltered  from 
all  attack,  and  makes  predatory  raids  in  the  imme- 
diate vicinity  with  its  crown  of  hooked  claws  and  its 
four  suckers." 

"What  a  miserable  fate  is  the  pig's,"  Emile  ex- 
claimed, "to  be  eaten  up  alive  like  that,  all  full  of 
the  ravenous  vermin  and  unable  to  get  rid  of  them ! 
The  poor  animal  must  soon  succumb. ' ' 

"Not  exactly.  It  wastes  away,  it  is  true,  but  it 
resists  for  a  long  time,  being  very  tenacious  of  life." 

"I  can't  think  without  horror,"  said  Jules,  "of 
the  terrible  itching  such  an  army  of  vermin  must 
cause,  biting  and  boring  into  the  creature 's  flesh  all 
over  its  body. 9 ' 

"Your  horror  would  redouble  if  you  knew  that 
this  vermin  only  awaits  a  favorable  opportunity  to 
emigrate  to  our  bodies  even,  and  to  ravage  us  in  our 
turn." 

"What!  Those  horrid  pig  worms  have  designs 
on  us  1 " 

"And  designs,  ala,s,  too  often  accomplished,  if  we 
are  not  careful.  That  is  what  we  are  now  about  to 
consider. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A   PERSISTENT   PARASITE 

members  of  the  animal  kingdom  change 
their  form  in  the  course  of  their  existence, 
and  with  the  new  structure  adopt  also  a  new  way  of 
living.  Thus  the  caterpillar  and  the  butterfly,  for 
example,  are  in  reality  the  same  creature,  but  very 
different  in  shape  and  habits.  The  caterpillar  drags 
itself  heavily  over  the  plant,  gnawing  the  foliage; 
the  butterfly,  furnished  with  light  and  graceful 
wings,  flies  from  flower  to  flower,  imbibing  a  sugary 
liquor  from  each  with  its  long  proboscis.  The 
cherry  worm  grows  in  the  midst  of  the  juice  that 
feeds  it;  after  attaining  full  size  it  falls  from  the 
tree  with  the  damaged  fruit  and  hastens  to  bury 
itself  in  the  ground,  there  to  undergo  its  transforma- 
tion. Next  spring  it  comes  forth  in  the  form  of  an 
elegant  fly  that  lives  on  honey  from  the  flowers  and 
never  again  touches  a  cherry  except  to  deposit  its 
eggs  therein,  one  by  one.  In  the  same  way,  again, 
the  nut  worm,  after  finishing  its  growth,  bores  a  hole 
in  the  firm  shell,  emerges  from  its  fortress,  and 
buries  itself  for  a  time  in  the  soil.  There  it  becomes 
a  beetle  with  a  long  proboscis,  the  so-called  nut 
weevil,  which  leaves  its  subterranean  retreat  in  the 
spring  and  takes  up  its  quarters  on  the  foliage  of  a 

334 


A  PERSISTENT  PARASITE 

nut  tree,  where  it  lays  its  eggs  in  the  growing  nuts. 

"  All  species  of  animal  life  that  change  their  shape 
act  in  this  way.  In  the  first  half  of  their  existence, 
under  their  initial  form,  they  have  certain  habits 
and  certain  dwelling-places;  in  the  second  half,  un- 
der their  final  form,  they  have  habits  and  abodes 
that  are  quite  different. 

"Well,  the  worm  that  makes  its  home  in  the  white 
cells  or  granules  of  the  diseased  pig's  flesh  is  also 
subject  to  transformation.  It  has  to  change  its 
form,  but  before  doing  so  it  must  first  change  its 
abode.  The  cherry  worm  would  never  turn  into  a 
fly  so  long  as  it  remained  in  the  cherry;  the  nut 
weevil  would  never  become  a  beetle  if  it  continued 
to  abide  in  the  nut.  Both  must  emigrate  and  hollow 
out  a  home  for  themselves  in  the  earth  if  they  would 
cease  to  be  worms  and  become  a  fly  in  one  case,  a 
beetle  in  the  other.  In  like  manner,  the  parasites 
of  the  diseased  pig  would  never  attain  their  final 
form  in  the  flesh  that  they  inhabit;  it  is  absolutely 
necessary  for  them  to  change  their  abode  in  order 
that  the  transformation  may  take  place.  But  as 
they  cannot  leave  their  cells  of  their  own  accord  and 
transport  themselves  to  their  new  abode,  which  is 
difficult  of  access,  as  you  will  see,  they  wait  patiently, 
whole  years  if  necessary,  for  a  favorable  opportu- 
nity to  emigrate. ' ' 

1 '  Where  then  is  this  new  abode  ?'' '  asked  Jules. 

"In  us,  my  poor  child,  in  us  exclusively.  The 
cherry  worm  and  the  nut  weevil  are  content,  for  the 
purposes  of  their  metamorphosis,  with  a  hole  in  the 


336  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

sand ;  but  the  odious  worm  of  the  diseased  pig  must 
have  the  human  body  for  its  new  home — nothing 
else." 

"It  can't  be  that  the  abominable  creature  really 
gets  into  us." 

"It  gets  there  very  easily,  and  it  is  we  ourselves 
who  unconsciously  open  the  door  to  the  perfidious 
enemy.  Some  day  or  other  the  pig  is  killed  for  our 
nourishment.  Its  four  legs  become  hams,  other 
parts  are  made  into  sausages,  its  fat  is  tried  out  and 
stored  away.  All  these  various  pork  products  are 
well  salted,  carefully  dried,  or  sometimes  smoked; 
nothing  is  neglected  that  will  assure  long  keeping. 
Now  in  all  this  thorough  treatment,  this  salting  and 
trying  and  smoking,  what  do  you  think  becomes  of 
the  little  worms  inhabiting  the  diseased  flesh!" 

"They  must  die,  surely." 

"That  is  where  you  are  mistaken.  They  are  very 
tenacious  of  life,  the  accursed  things !  The  strong- 
est saline  solution  leaves  them  unaffected;  but  if 
some  or  even  a  great  many  should  perish,  there 
would  always  be  plenty  of  survivors,  for  they  are 
numerous  beyond  counting.  Behold,  then,  our  food 
infected  with  the  vermin  that  at  the  first  opportunity 
will  invade  our  bodies.  You  eat  a  sausage  the  size 
of  your  finger,  or  a  slice  of  ham,  and  the  thing  is 
done:  with  the  appetizing  mouthful  you  have  just 
swallowed  the  horrible  creature.  Henceforth  the 
enemy  is  with  you,  at  home ;  it  will  grow,  develop,  be 
transformed,  and  cause  no  end  of  mischief." 

"But  the  stomach  will  digest  it,  I  hope,  as  it  would 


A  PERSISTENT  PARASITE  337 

digest  anything  else;  and  the  hateful  intruder  will 
perish." 

"Not  at  all.  The  digestive  energies  of  the  stom- 
ach make  no  impression  on  it.  It  passes  through 
quite  untouched,  protected  perhaps  by  its  resistant 
shell,  and  goes  farther  on  to  establish  itself  defini- 
tively in  the  intestines. 

"And  now  all  the  conditions  are  the  best  possible 
for  the  worm.  The  situation  is  quiet,  disturbance 
from  without  is  not  to  be  apprehended,  and  the  best 
food  in  our  power  to  furnish  is  supplied  in  abun- 
dance. With  its  double  ring  of  hooks,  each  one 
shaped  like  the  fluke  of  an  anchor,  the  organism 
fastens  itself  to  the  wall  of  its  abode  and  straight- 
way begins  to  develop.  On  its  arrival  it  was  a  very 
short  and  wrinkled  little  worm,  terminating  at  one 
end  in  a  small  round  head,  at  the  other  in  a  spacious 
bladder.  In  a  short  time  it  will  turn  into  a  sort  of 
ribbon  that  may  attain  the  enormous  length  of  four 
or  five  meters." 

' '  Oh,  how  horrible ! ' '  cried  Louis.  '  *  Can  it  be  that 
we  serve  as  a  dwelling  for  such  a  guest  1 ' ' 

"Say  rather  for  a  number  of  such  guests,  since 
as  a  rule  they  are  not  found  singly.  They  are  com- 
monly called  solitary  worms,  an  improper  term,  as 
you  see,  since  there  are  generally  several  of  them  to- 
gether. Their  real  name  is  taenia,  or  tape-worm, 
from  their  ribbon-like  form. 

"Imagine  a  narrow  tape  or  band  of  a  dull  white 
color,  a  sort  of  ribbon  of  variable  length  that  may 
measure  as  much  as  five  meters ;  imagine  this  ribbon 


338  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

almost  as  small  as  a  hair  near  the  creature's  head, 
then  broadening  little  by  little  and  attaining  the 
width  of  a  centimeter ;  picture  to  yourself  the  entire 
length  of  the  creature  divided  into  sections  or  joints, 
some  square,  others  oblong,  placed  end  to  end  like 
the  beads  of  a  chaplet,  or,  better,  like  pumpkin  seeds 
strung  one  after  another,  and  you  will  have  a  suffi- 
ciently good  idea  of  the  tsenia  or  tape-worm. 

"The  number  of  these  joints  is  sometimes  as  many 
as  a  thousand,  and,  what  is  more,  new  ones  are  al- 
ways forming,  for  the  taenia  has  the  singular  faculty 
of  producing  them  indefinitely  in  a  row,  each  one 
growing  out  of  the  preceding.  All  are  full  of  eggs, 
detestable  seed  of  the  original  malady  in  the  pig,  and 
then  of  the  tape-worm  in  man.  The  terminal  sec- 
tions or  joints,  the  oldest  and  ripest,  become  de- 
tached from  time  to  time  in  chaplets  and  are  ex- 
pelled. Any  pig  nosing  about  in  the  excrement  con- 
taining them  is  pretty  sure  to  become  infected  from 
the  eggs  contained  in  these  joints,  for  each  one  is  the 
germ  of  a  hydatid.  These  eggs  will  hatch  in  the 
animal's  intestines;  and,  as  soon  as  hatched,  the 
young  worms,  opening  a  passage  for  themselves  here 
and  there  with  their  crown  of  hooks,  will  go  and 
lodge  wherever  they  please,  some  in  the  lean  flesh, 
some  in  the  fat,  there  to  encase  themselves  in  a  re- 
sistant shell,  a  cell  built  out  of  the  pig's  substance, 
and  there  they  will  await  the  moment  favorable  for 
their  emigration  to  the  human  body. 

"These  frequent  losses  in  chaplets  of  discarded 
sections  do  not  in  the  least  impair  the  tape-worm's 


A  PERSISTENT  PARASITE  339 

vigor;  new  sections  grow,  and  the  frightful  length 
of  the  creature  is  maintained.  Were  it  to  lose  al- 
most its  entire  length,  that  would  in  no  wise  trouble 
it ;  let  only  the  head  remain,  firmly  held  in  place  by 
its  hooks,  and  new  joints  will  form  until  the  worm 
is  as  long  as  ever.  Until  the  head  is  got  rid  of  there 
is  no  hope  of  Deliverance.  I  could  not  describe  to 
you,  my  children,  the  atrocious  sufferings  of  a  per- 
son afflicted  with  this  formidable  parasite  so  difficult 
to  dislodge. " 

"You  give  us  goose-flesh, "  said  Emile,  "with  that 
five-meters-long  worm  that  keeps  growing  again, 
each  time  stronger  than  before,  provided  its  head 
is  left/' 

"It  must  need  very  serious  precaution,"  Louis  re- 
marked, "not  to  be  attacked  by  the  creature. " 

"The  precaution  is  very  simple.  Since  the  tape- 
worm has  its  origin  in  the  diseased  pig,  let  us  beware 
of  all  pork  thus  infected.  This  infection,  as  I  told 
you,  is  recognizable  in  the  white  granules  abounding 
in  the  flesh,  each  granule  being  the  abode  of  a  little 
worm,  the  first  form  of  the  taenia.  Raw  meats,  such 
as  ham  and  sausage,  are  the  only  ones  to  fear,  be- 
cause salting  and  drying  leave,  if  not  all,  at  least 
some  of  these  worms  alive.  But  meat  perfectly 
cooked,  either  boiled  or  baked,  is  absolutely  without 
any  danger  even  if  infested  with  a  multitude  of  these 
little  granules,  because  heat  of  a  sufficient  intensity 
kills  whatever  worms  they  contain. 

"The  rule  to  follow,  therefore,  is  plain:  if  a  pig 
is  diseased,  it  need  not  be  summarily  thrown  away; 


340  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

its  flesh,  although  of  inferior  quality,  its  lard  and  ba- 
con, can  very  well  be  utilized,  but  care  must  be  taken 
never  to  use  any  of  this  food  without  first  thoroughly 
cooking  it  at  a  heat  intense  enough  to  destroy  every 
dangerous  germ.  As  for  the  pig  itself,  it  can  be 
kept  from  the  measles  by  cleanliness,  and  especially 
by  seeing  that  it  eats  no  excrement.  Every  pig  that 
wanders  about  and  feeds  on  filth  deposited  along 
walls  may  find  under  its  snout  some  pieces  of  tsenia, 
swallow  them  with  the  dirty  food,  and  thus  become 
infected  with  hydatids. 

"To  finish  this  subject,  I  will  tell  you  of  another 
taenia  which  in  its  tape-worm  form  inhabits  the  dog's 
intestines,  and  in  its  bladder-like  or  hydatid  stage 
has  its  home  in  the  sheep's  brain.  Grass  defiled  by 
the  excrement  of  dogs  affected  with  this  taenia  re- 
ceives the  eggs  of  the  expelled  ripened  sections.  A 
sheep  comes  to  browse  this  grass,  and  in  a  few  weeks 
a  terrible  disease  shows  itself  in  the  poor  animal. 
With  wild  eye,  driveling  mouth,  and  heavy  head,  the 
animal  turns  round  and  round,  always  the  same  way, 
and  falls  gasping  on  its  side.  Food  no  longer 
tempts  it,  the  blade  of  grass  stops  on  its  bleeding 
lips.  All  its  efforts  to  stand  up  are  powerless;  it 
keeps  looking  for  a  support,  especially  for  its  head, 
and  if  this  support  is  lacking  it  falls  after  a  few 
turns.  This  strange  disease  is  called  the  staggers, 
from  the  animal's  tendency  to  turn  and  turn  with 
staggering  motions. 

' '  Now  if  we  open  the  brain  of  a  sheep  that  has  died 
of  the  staggers,  we  invariably  find  in  the  cerebral 


A  PERSISTENT  PARASITE  341 

substance  one  or  more  limpid  bladders  from  the  size 
of  a  pea  to  that  of  a  hen's  egg." 

' '  And  these  horrid  worms  in  the  bladder, ' '  queried 
Jules,  "no  doubt  destroy  the  brain  matter,  little  by 
little." 

6  i  They  grow  at  the  expense  of  the  brain. ' 9 

"I  can  well  believe  then,  that  the  sheep  is  unable 
to  stand." 

"Each  of  these  little  bladders  is  a  taenia  in  its  first 
stage  of  development,  and  comes  from  the  germ 
sown  by  the  severed  link  or  joint  that  the  dog  ejects 
with  its  excrement.  As  indisputable  proof  of  this, 
if  lambs  are  made  to  swallow  some  of  the  taenia  links 
ejected  by  the  dog,  these  lambs  soon  show  themselves 
to  be  seized  with  the  staggers,  and  in  their  brains 
are  found  the  bladder-like  organisms  that  cause  the 
disease.  The  germs  contained  in  the  severed  pieces 
of  the  taenia  must  therefore  hatch  in  the  lamb's  in- 
testines, and  the  worms  thus  brought  into  being  must 
make  their  way,  through  a  thousand  obstacles,  to  the 
animal's  brain,  the  only  part  of  its  body  adapted 
to  the  development  of  the  parasite." 

' '  Then  it  is  in  the  brain  that  the  little  worms  grow 
and  become  bladders  as  large  as  hens '  eggs ! ' ' 

"  It  is  only  there  that  they  can  flourish.  But  these 
bladder-shaped  worms  are  only  incomplete  beings, 
comparable  to  the  larvae  of  insects;  and  as  long  as 
they  remain  in  the  sheep 's  brain  their  final  develop- 
ment will  not  be  attained.  To  acquire  their  final 
form,  to  become  taenias,  tape-worms,  these  larvae 
must  pass  into  the  dogrs  intestines.  A  conclusive 


OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

experiment  shows  it.  If  a  dog  is  made  to  take  with 
its  food  some  vesicular  worms  from  a  sheep's  brain, 
the  animal  soon  gives  unequivocal  signs  of  the  pres- 
ence of  the  taenia:  its  excrement  contains  chaplets 
more  or  less  long  of  ripe  joints.  Furthermore,  by 
sacrificing  the  dog  so  as  to  be  able  to  decide  the  ques- 
tion more  conclusively,  one  finds  in  the  intestines 
the  vesicular  worms  converted  into  veritable  tsenias 
or  tape-worms.  So  the  dog  gives  the  sheep  the 
germs  that  develop  in  the  brain  into  vesicular 
worms;  and  the  sheep  gives  the  dog  back  these  ve- 
sicular worms,  which  change  into  tape-worms  in  the 
intestines." 

"But  how,"  asked  Louis,  "can  the  dog  become 
infected  with  vesicular  worms  when  they  are  not  ex- 
pressly given  to  it  with  its  food,  as  an  experiment?" 

"Nothing  easier.  The  sheep  affected  with  the 
staggers  is  slaughtered,  and  its  head,  the  seat  of  the 
disease,  is  thrown  away.  The  dog  that  finds  it 
feasts  on  it." 

"And  there  we  have  shepherd  dogs  attacked  by 
taenia,"  said  Louis.  "Their  excrement  will  spread 
the  staggers  among  the  flock." 

"We  must,  then,"  concluded  Uncle  Paul,  "as  is 
recommended  by  those  who  have  studied  this  subject 
experimentally  in  veterinary  schools,  exercise  care- 
ful supervision  over  shepherd  dogs  and  exclude  from 
the  flock  those  that  are  attacked  with  the  taenia; 
finally,  if  the  infection  shows  itself  in  the  sheep,  we 
must  bury  beyond  the  reach  of  any  dog  the  heads  of 
the  slaughtered  animals." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THE    HOUSE 

<  *  T  II  T  OULD  you  like  to  hear  some  eloquent  words 

V  V     written  about  the  horse  several  thousand 

years  ago?    I  take  them  from  the  book  of  Job,  the 

just  man,  whose  admirable  history  is  related  in  the 

Bible. » 

"It  was  Job  wasn't  it,"  asked  Jules,  "who  was 
tried  by  the  hand  of  God,  lost  his  health,  family,  all 
his  goods,  and  was  reduced  to  such  misery  that,  lying 
on  a  dung-hill,  he  scraped  his  boils  and  vermin  with 
a  potsherd  I  His  faith  in  God  gave  him  back  his 
former  prosperity." 

"Yes,  my  friend.  The  just  man  whose  faith  in 
God  even  the  direst  misfortunes  could  not  shake  has 
left  us  these  beautiful  words  on  the  horse: 

"  'Hast  Thou  given  the  horse  strength?  hast  Thou 
clothed  his  neck  with  thunder?  Canst  Thou  make 
him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper?  The  glory  of  his  nos- 
trils is  terrible.  He  paweth  in  the  valley,  and  re- 
joiceth  in  his  strength:  he  goeth  on  to  meet  the 
armed  men.  He  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  af- 
frighted; neither  turneth  he  back  from  the  sword. 
The  quiver  rattleth  against  him,  the  glittering  spear 
and  the  shield.  He  swalloweth  the  ground  with 

343 


344  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

fierceness  and  rage:  neither  believeth  lie  that  it  is 
the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  He  saith  among  the  trum- 
pets, Ha,  ha ;  and  he  smelleth  the  battle  afar  off,  the 
thunder  of  the  captains,  and  the  shouting. ' 

"Thus  spake  Job  in  the  ancient  days  while  around 
his  camel's-skin  tent  bounded  mares  and  colts  under 
the  shade  of  the  palm  trees.  Now  let  us  listen  to  our 
great  historian  of  animals,  Buffon,  who,  in  his  turn, 
draws  in  a  few  splendid  phrases  the  portrait  of  the 
horse. 

1 l  '  The  noblest  conquest  man  has  ever  made  is  that 
of  this  proud  and  spirited  animal  that  shares  with 
him  the  fatigues  of  war  and  the  glory  of  battle.  As 
intrepid  as  its  master,  the  horse  sees  danger  and 
shrinks  not;  it  becomes  accustomed  to  the  clash  of 
arms,  loves  it,  seeks  it,  and  is  fired  with  the  same 
ardor.  It  also  shares  his  pleasure  in  the  chase,  in 
the  tournament,  and  in  racing.  But,  no  less  docile 
than  courageous,  it  does  not  let  its  ardor  run  away 
with  it;  it  knows  how  to  control  its  impulses.  Not 
only  does  it  obey  the  hand  that  guides  it,  but  it  seems 
to  consult  that  hand's  wishes;  always  responding 
to  its  touch,  it  quickens  or  slackens  its  pace,  or  stops 
altogether,  compliant  in  its  every  act.  It  is  a  crea- 
ture which  renounces  itself  to  exist  only  by  the  will 
of  another;  which  by  the  promptness  and  precision 
of  its  movements  expresses  and  executes  that  will; 
which  feels  as  much  as  it  is  desired  to  and  only 
renders  what  is  asked;  which  surrenders  itself 
unreservedly,  refuses  nothing,  serves  with  all  its 
strength,  wears  itself  out,  and  even  dies  to  obey  the 


THE  HORSE  345 

better.'    Thus  Buff  on  expresses  himself  in  regard 
to  the  horse. " 

"I  like  Job's  way  of  saying  it  a  good  deal  better, " 
Jules  declared. 

"I  too,"  his  uncle  assented.  "To  my  mind,  no 
one  has  said  it  better  than  the  old  author  who  lived 
in  the  land  of  palms.  In  a  few  sublimely  ener- 
getic words  he  paints  for  us  the  character  of  the 
horse." 

"I  'm  too  young,"  said  Emile,  "to  have  an  opin- 
ion on  such  a  lofty  subject ;  at  the  same  time  I  will 
confess,  Uncle,  that  I  get  lost  very  easily  in  Buff  on 's 
long  sentences. ' ' 

"In  the  form  in  which  I  have  quoted  them  to  you, 
do  not  call  them  long,  for  on  your  account  I  took  the 
liberty  to  cut  them  up  into  separate  clauses.  In  the 
author's  exact  words  the  whole  makes  but  one  sen- 
tence. From  beginning  to  end,  the  sonorous  period 
does  not  give  one  a  chance  to  take  breath. ' ' 

"All  the  same,  in  spite  of  the  cutting,  I  still  lose 
my  way." 

"Let  us  return  then  to  your  uncle's  simple  man- 
ner of  talking.  The  appearance  of  the  horse  de- 
notes agility  combined  with  strength.  The  body  is 
powerful,  the  chest  broad,  the  rump  well  rounded, 
the  head  somewhat  heavy  but  sustained  by  strong 
neck  and  shoulders;  the  thighs  and  shoulders  are 
muscular,  legs  slender,  hocks  vigorous  and  supple. 
A  graceful  mane  falling  on  one  side  runs  along  the 
neck ;  the  tail  bears  a  thick  growth  of  long  hair  which 
the  animal  uses  to  drive  troublesome  flies  from  its 


346  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

flanks.  The  eyes  are  large,  set  near  the  surface, 
and  very  expressive ;  the  ears,  remarkable  for  their 
mobility,  point  and  open  in  any  desired  direction  in 
order  the  better  to  catch  the  sound  in  their  trumpet- 
shaped  exterior.  The  nostrils  are  full  and  also  very 
mobile ;  the  upper  lip  projects  and  folds  over  to  seize 
the  food,  arrange  it  in  a  convenient  mouthful,  and 
carry  it  to  the  teeth,  just  as  a  hand  would.  The 
whole  surface  of  the  skin,  which  is  extremely  sensi- 
tive, quivers  and  shakes  at  the  slightest  touch.  Let 
us  not  forget  a  characteristic  peculiar  to  the  horse 
and  other  animals  that  most  nearly  resemble  it,  such 
as  the  zebra  and  donkey :  on  the  forelegs,  and  some- 
times the  hind  ones  as  well,  there  is  a  bare  spot,  hard 
as  horn,  and  known  as  a  callus. 

"The  horse's  neigh  or  whinny,  as  it  is  called, 
varies  according  to  the  feelings  expressed.  The 
whinny  of  delight  is  rather  long,  rising  little  by  little, 
and  ending  in  a  shrill  note.  At  the  same  time  the 
animal  kicks  out,  but  not  violently  or  with  any  desire 
to  do  harm — merely  as  a  sign  of  joy.  To  express  de- 
sire the  whinny  is  longer,  ends  on  a  lower  key,  and 
is  not  accompanied  with  any  kicking  movement.  On 
these  occasions  the  horse  sometimes  shows  its  teeth 
and  seems  to  laugh.  The  neigh  of  anger  is  short 
and  sharp.  Vigorous  kicks  accompany  it,  the  lips 
are  distorted  in  a  grimace,  showing  the  teeth,  and  the 
ears  lie  close  to  the  head  and  point  backward.  This 
last  sign  shows  an  intention  to  bite.  The  neigh  of 
fear  is  pitched  low  and  is  hoarse  and  short.  It 
seems  to  be  produced  chiefly  by  blowing  through 


THE  HORSE  347 

the  nostrils,  and  slightly  resembles  the  lion's  roar. 
The  animal's  chief  mode  of  defense,  kicking,  is  sure 
to  accompany  it.  Finally,  the  note  of  pain  is  a  deep 
groan,  becoming  weaker  and  weaker,  subsiding  and 
then  coming  again  with  the  alternate  inspiration  and 
expiration. ' ' 

'  i  So  when  the  horse  shows  its  big  teeth  and  seems 
to  laugh,  it  wants  something,"  Emile  broke  in. 

"Yes,  my  friend.  It  is  hungry  and  tired,  and  it 
thinks  of  the  repose  of  the  stable,  of  the  crib  filled 
with  hay,  of  the  manger  with  its  savory  peck  of  oats. 
Perhaps  it  has  heard  the  joyful  neighing  of  its  mates 
and  wishes  to  join  them.  Horses  that  are  most 
given  to  neighing  with  eagerness  or  desire  are  the 
best  horses,  the  most  spirited." 

"And  if  they  lay  their  ears  back  they  want  to 
bite?" 

"Yes,  that  is  their  way  of  giving  notice  that  they 
are  going  to  have  revenge  for  some  ill-treatment,  by 
biting. 

"In  our  talk  on  the  Auxiliaries,  I  have  already 
told  you  of  the  remarkable  structure  of  their  teeth; 
in  particular  I  showed  you  how  the  horse's  molars, 
or  grinders,  are  arranged  so  as  to  grind  the  tough 
fodder  like  mill-stones.  A  very  hard  substance 
called  enamel,  capable  of  striking  fire  like  flint,  cov- 
ers the  teeth  and  extends  into  the  underlying  and 
less  resistant  mass  of  ivory,  forming  on  the  crown  of 
each  molar  a  number  of  sinuous  folds.  These  hard 
folds  constitute  a  kind  of  strong  file  which  tears  in 
pieces  the  blades  of  forage  when  the  opposite  molar 


348  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

is  brought  into  play.    Need  I  go  over  all  this  again  ! ' ' 

"No,  Uncle, "  replied  Jules;  "we  all  remember 
how  ivory  wears  away  by  degrees,  but  the  folds  of 
enamel  cap  this  softer  substance  and  keep  the  molars 
in  a  proper  condition  for  crushing  the  food. ' ' 

' '  Then  I  will  continue  by  showing  you  how  by  ex- 
amining a  horse's  incisors  we  may  learn  the  animal's 
age.  These  incisors  are  six  in  number  in  each  jaw. 
They  are  accompanied  in  the  upper  and  often  also 
in  the  lower  jaw  by  two  small  canine  teeth  having 
the  shape  of  pointed  nipples.  Beyond  these,  and 
until  the  row  of  molars  begins,  the  jaw  is  toothless, 
and  this  part  is  called  the  bar. ' ' 

"I  know,"  broke  in  Louis;  "it  is  in  the  bar  that 
the  bit  is  placed  with  which  the  horse  is  guided. " 

"Let  us  return  to  the  incisors.  The  two  in  the 
middle  of  the  jaw  are  called  the  first  or  central  inci- 
sors ;  the  next  two,  one  on  the  right  and  the  other  on 
the  left  of  the  first  ones,  are  called  the  second  inci- 
sors ;  finally,  the  two  last,  one  on  each  side,  are  called 
the  third  incisors.  Remember  these  names;  they 
will  save  us  the  trouble  of  roundabout  expressions. 

"A  few  days  after  birth  the  central  incisors  show 
themselves  in  each  of  the  foal's  jaws.  In  one  or 
two  months  the  second  incisors  appear,  and  in  six 
or  eight  months  the  third  incisors  pierce  the  gum. 
These  are  the  first  or  milk  teeth,  as  they  are  called. 
When  the  animal  is  between  two  and  a  half  and  three 
years  old  they  fall  out  and  are  replaced  by  the  sec- 
ond teeth,  which  make  their  appearance  in  the  same 
order  as  the  preceding  ones:  first  the  central  inci- 


THE  HORSE 


349 


sors,  then  the  second  incisors,  and  lastly  the  third 
incisors.  The  three  pairs  succeed  one  another  at 
intervals  of  about  a  year.  I  will  add  that  the  milk 
teeth  are  whiter  and  narrower  than  the  others.  You 
already  see  that  by  examining  the  incisors  and 
noting  whether  they  are  first  or  second  teeth  we  can 
tell  the  age  of  a  young  horse ;  but  there  are  other  dis- 
tinctive marks  which  we  must  now  learn. 

"Here  is  a  picture  of  the  longitudinal  section  of 
a  horse's  incisor.  In  the  lower  part,  or  root,  of  the 
tooth  is  a  cavity  occupied  by  the 
nerve  which  gives  sensitiveness  to 
the  tooth  and  which  carries  to  it,  in 
the  blood,  the  materials  for  its 
growth  and  maintenance.  The  up- 
per part,  or  crown,  likewise  con- 
tains a  depression,  which  is  called 
the  pit  or  cavity  of  the  crown,  and 
is  filled  with  blackish  matter.  A 
layer  of  enamel  covers  the  outside 
of  the  tooth,  folds  over  the  crown, 
and  extends  into  the  cavity,  the 
walls  of  which  it  lines.  The  rest 
of  the  tooth  is  composed  of 
ivory. 

1  '  From  this  structure  you  will  see  that  the  enamel, 
continuing  uninterruptedly  from  ,the  outside  to  the 
inside,  forms  a  sharp  ridge  on  the  edges  of  the  cor- 
onal cavity.  But  this  condition  does  not  last  long 
and  is  found  only  in  incisors  of  recent  formation. 
In  fact,  by  the  grinding  of  the  teeth  one  against  an- 


Longitudinal  Section 
of  a  Horse's  Incisor 


350  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

other  when  the  animal  chews  its  forage,  the  edge  of 
the  enamel  first  crumbles,  then  wears  off  little  by 
little,  and  finally  disappears  altogether,  leaving  the 
ivory  exposed  on  the  top  of  the  crown.  This  fric- 
tion always  going  on,  the  coronal  cavity  or  pit  be- 
comes less  and  less  deep  until  at  last  there  is  noth- 
ing of  it  left.  The  upper  face  of  the  crown  is  then 
flat  instead  of  hollowed-out  as  it  was  at  first.  This 
gradual  obliteration  of  the  hollow  or  pit  in  the  crown 
of  the  incisor,  whether  in  the  first  or  in  the  second 
set  of  teeth,  furnishes  a  means  of  determining  the 
horse's  age.  I  have  just  told  you  when  the  milk 
teeth  make  their  appearance;  I  will  now  add  what 
is  to  be  said  about  their  wearing  down.  The  cen- 
tral incisors  of  the  first  set  of  teeth  are  worn  down 
so  that  their  crowns  are  flat  in  ten  months,  the  sec- 
ond incisors  in  one  year,  and  the  third  incisors  in 
from  fifteen  months  to  two  years.  Let  us  next  con- 
sider how  the  horse's  age  may  be  determined  at  a 
later  period. 

"I  here  show  you  a  picture  of  the  incisors  of  the 
lower  jaw.  What  do  you  see  that  will  help  you  to 
estimate  the  horse's  age?" 

"I  see  in  the  first  place,"  answered  Jules,  "that 
the  teeth  are  not  all  of  the  same  age.  The  two  in 
the  middle,  the  central  incisors  as  you  call  them,  are 
newer,  since  the  cavities  in  their  crowns  are  in  good 
condition,  with  their  sharp  edges  of  enamel.  The 
others  are  older;  their  crowns  are  blunted  by  fric- 
tion; in  fact,  they  are  a  good  deal  worn  down." 

"Are  all  six  of  the  same  cutting?" 


THE  HORSE  351 

"Evidently  not,  for  if  they  were,  the  middle  in- 
cisors would  show  the  most  wear,  as  they  come  first ; 
but  exactly  the  opposite  is  the  case.  Since  they  are 
quite  new  and  those  on  each  side  are  already  worn, 
they  must  belong  to  the  second  cutting. ' ' 

"That  is  quite  right.  Now  find  the  animal's 
age." 

"Let  me  think  a  moment.  I  have  it.  When  the 
horse  is  between  two  and  a  half  and  three  years  old 
the  shedding  of 
the  milk  teeth  be- 
gins. The  first  to 
be  replaced  are 
the  central  inci- 
sors. The  jaw  you 

Show  me  haS  these  Teeth  of  a  Four- Year  Old  Horse 

teeth  of  the  second  set  quite  new.  Consequently  the 
horse  is  about  three  years  old." 

"The  answer  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired:  the 
horse  is  in  fact  three  years  old.  Now,  Louis,  what 
have  you  to  say  about  this  jaw  that  I  next  show 
you?" 

"Here,  too,  the  teeth  are  of  different  sets,  since 
the  central  incisors  and  those  next  to  them  are  less 
worn  than  the  others.  Moreover,  the  second  inci- 
sors are  newer  than  the  middle  ones,  as  can  be  seen 
from  their  sharper  edges.  These  second  incisors 
are  second  teeth;  so  are  the  central  incisors,  which 
are  a  little  worn  because  they  appeared  the  preced- 
ing year.  The  third  incisors,  which  show  the  most 
wear  of  all,  are  milk  teeth." 


352  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"All  that  is  correct.    And  the  animal's  age?" 
"It  must  be  four  years  old.    At  three  the  second 
set  of  central  incisors  has  grown,  and  now  at  four 
come  the  incisors  next  to  them. ' ' 

"Your  opinion  is  mine  too :  the  horse  is  four  years 

old.  Now  it  is 
Emile's  turn.  I 
will  ask  him  to 
examine  this 
third  picture  of 

Teeth  of  a  Five- Year-Old  Horse  ft       horse»s      jaw? 

and  I  hope  he  will  show  his  usual  perspicacity." 

'  *  These  teeth, ' '  said  Emile  after  some  study, '  *  are 
too  large  to  be  milk  teeth.  All  six  belong  to  the  sec- 
ond set,  and  as  the  newest  are  the  outside  incisors 
the  animal  must  be  a  year  older  than  the  preceding 
one ;  that  is  to  say,  five  years. ' ' 

'  *  Very  good,  Emile, ' '  applauded  his  uncle.  ' l  You 
have  handled  the  case  like  a  master.  At  five  years 
the  entire  second  set  of  incisors  has  pushed 
through  and  it 
is  too  late  to 
learn  anything 
by  comparing 
teeth  of  first 
and  second 
sets ;  hence- 
forth the  de-  Teeth  of  a  Six- Year-Old  Horse 

gree  of  wear  in  the  different  incisors  is  our  sole 
guide.  Thus  at  six  years  the  coronal  pit  in  the  cen- 
tral incisors  has  entirely  disappeared,  while  it  is  still 


THE  HORSE  353 

plainly  seen  in  the  third  incisors.  Finally,  at  eight 
years  these  latter  are  worn  down  so  that  their 
crowns  are  smooth.  It  is  then  said  that  the  horse 
no  longer  shows  its  age  by  its  teeth.  Nevertheless 
an  expert  can  still  detect,  on  the  surface  of  the  in- 
cisors as  they  become  more  and  more  worn,  certain 
marks  that  enable  him  to  estimate,  at  least  pretty 
nearly,  the  age  of  the  horse  up  to  the  twentieth  year 
and  beyond. " 

' 'That  must  be  a  difficult  undertaking/'  com- 
mented Jules. 

"Very  difficult;  therefore  I  will  not  dwell  on  it 
any  longer. " 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

THE    HORSE 
(Continued) 

"  TV  TOW  let  us  say  a  few  words  about  the  horse's 
111  coat,  the  growth  of  hair  that  covers  its  body. 
This  may  be  of  uniform  color  or  of  two  or  more  dif- 
ferent colors.  Coats  of  uniform  color  are  the  white, 
the  black,  and  the  chestnut.  The  two  first  do  not 
need  any  explanation.  A  horse  is  chestnut  when  its 
coat  is  of  a  reddish  or  yellowish  tint. 

"  Among  the  composite  coats,  the  following  are 
distinguished.  The  horse  is  piebald  if  the  coloring 
is  in  large  splashes,  some  white,  others  black  or  red. 
It  is  flee-bitten  gray  if  the  coat  is  a  mixture  of  white, 
black,  and  red,  over  the  whole  body,  legs  and  all ;  but 
if  the  legs  are  black  while  the  body  presents  a  com- 
bination of  the  three  tints,  the  horse  is  roan.  Bay 
horses  have  a  chestnut-colored  coat,  that  is  to  say 
reddish  or  yellowish,  with  the  legs,  the  mane,  and 
the  tail  brown  or  black.  The  coat  is  dappled  when 
it  is  thickly  sprinkled  with  light  spots  on  a  darker 
background  of  uniform  color.  Dappled  gray  is  com- 
mon. It  is  dun  when  the  color  is  yellowish  with  a 
brown  stripe  on  the  back,  a  peculiarity  rather  com- 
mon in  the  donkey  and  mule.  A  number  of  other 
terms  are  used  in  describing  a  horse 's  coat  in  detail. 

354 


THE  HORSE  355 

Thus  the  term  white-foot  is  applied  to  the  white 
marking  sometimes  found  just  above  the  hoof.  A 
white  spot  in  the  middle  of  the  forehead  is  called  a 
blaze  if  it  is  round,  a  star  if  angular. 

"The  horse's  mode  of  progress  is  called  its  gait, 
and  may  be  either  natural  or  artificial,  depending  on 
whether  the  animal  is  untrained  or  trained.  The 
natural  gaits  are  the  walk,  the  trot,  and  the  gallop. 
In  the  walk  the  legs  move  in  what  may  be  termed  a 
diagonal  sequence,  as  follows:  the  right  fore  leg, 
the  left  hind  leg,  the  left  fore  leg,  the  right  hind  leg. 
If  the  horse  is  well  formed  the  hind  foot  steps  ex- 
actly into  the  track  left  by  the  fore  foot  on  the 
same  side. 

"In  the  trot  the  feet  are  lifted  and  put  down  two 
by  two  in  diagonal  pairs,  the  right  fore  foot  with  the 
left  hind  foot,  and  the  left  fore  foot  with  the  right 
hind  foot.  This  gait  is  more  rapid  than  the  pre- 
ceding, but  is  also  harder  for  the  rider  as  well  as 
for  the  horse,  because  of  the  shock  sustained  when 
two  feet  strike  the  ground  at  the  same  time. 

"The  gallop  is  of  several  kinds,  the  simplest  and 
swiftest  consisting  of  a  succession  of  forward 
bounds.  The  two  fore  feet  are  lifted  at  the  same 
time,  then  the  two  hind  feet,  which  push  the  animal 
with  a  sudden  spring.  That  is  the  racer's  gait. 

1 1  Among  the  artificial  gaits  I  will  mention  the 
amble,  in  which  the  legs  move  in  pairs  on  the  same 
side,  the  two  left  at  the  same  time,  then  the  two  right, 
alternately.  The  horse  thus  maintains  a  sort  of 
oscillation,  furnishing  a  gentle  and  easy  motion  for 


556  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

the  rider.  The  amble  is,  however,  rapid,  for  as  there 
is  no  support  on  the  side  of  the  two  uplifted  legs  the 
animal  keeps  from  falling  only  by  the  rapidity  of 
its  motion. 

"In  galloping  a  horse  covers  ten  meters  a  second, 
or  at  most  fifteen  when  going  at  top  speed.  In  trot- 
ting it  covers  from  three  to  four  meters,  and  in 
walking,  from  one  to  two." 

"Let  me  reckon  up  what  that  would  be  in  an 
hour,"  Emile  interposed.  "I  will  take  the  highest 
figures."  With  his  pencil  he  wrote  some  figures  on 
a  piece  of  paper,  and  then  said :  ' '  That  would  make, 
by  the  hour,  thirteen  leagues  of  four  kilometers  each 
for  the  horse  at  its  fastest  gallop ;  only  three  leagues 
for  the  horse  when  trotting ;  and  a  league  and  a  half 
when  walking. ' ' 

"I  must  inform  you,  my  friend,"  rejoined  his 
uncle,  "that  though  a  horse  can  keep  up  a  trot  for 
whole  hours  at  a  time,  it  is  impossible  for  it  to  gallop 
even  one  hour  without  stopping.  The  speed  that 
would  give  the  enormous  distance  of  thirteen  leagues 
an  hour  lasts  fifteen  minutes  at  the  most  in  racing, 
after  which  the  animal  is  exhausted.  Note  in  pass- 
ing the  superiority  of  the  railway  engine,  the  loco- 
motive, in  regard  to  rapidity.  This  speed  of  thir- 
teen leagues  an  hour,  which  blows  a  horse  in  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour's  race,  the  locomotive  keeps  up  and 
even  exceeds  as  long  as  may  be  desired.  No  com- 
parison, you  see,  is  possible  between  the  iron  steed 
and  the  steed  of  flesh  and  blood. 

"Let  us  turn  to  the  subject  of  the  horse's  strength. 


THE  HORSE  357 

A  riding  horse  carries  on  an  average  from  100  to 
175  kilograms  at  a  slow  gait.  If  the  load  is  a  rider 
of  80  kilograms,  the  horse  can  travel  seven  hours 
and  cover  ten  leagues  of  four  kilometers  each.  But 
its  strength  is  much  better  employed  if  instead  of 
carrying  the  weight  on  its  back  the  animal  draws  it 
in  a  vehicle.  Then  an  expenditure  of  energy  repre- 
sented by  the  weight  of  five  kilograms  is  sufficient 
to  move  a  load  of  1000  kilograms  if  the  wheels  of 
the  vehicle  run  on  a  railway  track.  For  the  same 
load  on  a  smooth,  level  road  an  expenditure  of  en- 
ergy represented  by  33  kilograms  is  needed;  finally, 
if  the  road  is  paved  with  stone  the  required  energy 
will  be  70  kilograms.  On  an  excellent  road,  stage- 
coach horses  draw  each  a  load  of  800  kilograms  and 
cover  six  leagues  in  two  hours,  after  which  they  are 
replaced  by  others. 

4 'Let  us  compare  these  figures  once  more  with 
those  relating  to  the  steam  engine.  A  passenger 
locomotive  draws  with  a  speed  of  a  dozen  leagues 
an  hour  a  train  having  a  total  weight  of  as  much  as 
150,000  kilograms.  A  freight  locomotive  draws  at 
the  rate  of  seven  leagues  an  hour  a  total  weight  of 
650,000  kilograms.  More  than  1300  horses  would  be 
needed  to  take  the  place  of  the  first  locomotive,  and 
more  than  2000  for  the  second,  if  they  were  used  to 
transport  similar  loads  the  same  distance  at  the 
same  rate  of  speed,  using  cars  running  on  rails. 
How  many  more  would  be  needed  with  wagons  on  or- 
dinary roads,  where  the  surface  inequalities  cause 
such  waste  of  energy ! 


358  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

"The  domestication  of  the  horse  goes  back  to  the 
first  communities  of  the  East.  After  the  herd  they 
must  soon  have  had,  first,  the  ass  to  carry  the  bag- 
gage of  the  nomadic  tribe,  then  the  horse,  man's  val- 
iant comrade  in  the  chase  and  in  war.  What  is  still 
to  be  observed  to-day  shows  us  how  easily  this  val- 
uable animal  submitted  to  man's  domination.  The 
grassy  plains  of  Tartary  abound  in  wild  horses,  and 
probably  the  species  originated  in  these  Asiatic  re- 
gions. The  pampas  of  South  America  feed  innum- 
erable herds  of  them,  mingled  with  the  wild  cattle 
that  I  have  told  you  about.  Both  descend  from  do- 
mestic animals  brought  to  the  New  World  by  Euro- 
peans. Each  herd  follows  a  leader  of  tried  strength 
and  courage.  If  danger  arises,  if  there  is  menace 
from  some  ferocious  wild  beast,  such  as  a  wolf,  pan- 
ther, or  jaguar,  the  horses  crowd  together  and  press 
against  one  another  for  their  common  defense. 
Their  haughty  look  and  their  kicking  are  generally 
sufficient  to  put  the  aggressor  to  flight.  But  if  the 
enemy  charges  them,  counting  on  an  easy  prey,  the 
leader  of  the  herd  rears  and  falls  on  the  beast  with 
all  its  weight,  crushing  the  assailant  with  its  fore 
hoofs;  then  with  its  powerful  jaws  seizes  the  shat- 
tered body  and  throws  it  to  the  colts,  which  finish 
it  and  caracole  on  its  body." 

"An  animal  that  defends  itself  like  that,"  re- 
marked Jules,  "must  be  rather  hard  to  tame  into  a 
docile  servant." 

"No,  the  difficulty  is  not,  after  all,  very  great. 
What  happens  to-day  on  the  pampas  when  it  is  de- 


THE  HORSE  359 

sired  to  master  a  wild  horse  is  of  a  nature  to  show 
us  how  the  ancient  horse-tamers  accomplished  the 
same  object.  A  herd  of  horses,  skilfully  turned 
aside  from  its  feeding  ground  and  surrounded  little 
by  little  on  all  sides,  is  driven  without  suspecting 
the  ruse  into  a  large  enclosure  called  a  corral. 
There  those  of  finest  appearance  are  selected.  Im- 
mediately a  dexterous  hand  throws  the  lasso,  the 
long  leather  thong  weighted  with  balls  of  lead,  which 
catches  them  round  the  neck  and  legs  and  prevents 
their  moving.  A  halter  is  quickly  put  on  the  cap- 
tive. A  practised  horseman  wearing  sharp  spurs 
mounts  the  animal,  the  fettering  lasso  is  removed  by 
helpers,  and  there  stands  the  animal,  free,  but  trem- 
bling after  its  misadventure. " 

"Now  the  horseman  had  better  look  out,"  said 
Jules. 

"Certainly,  the  first  moment  is  not  without  dan- 
ger. The  indignant  animal  rears,  kicks,  bounds,  and 
tries  to  roll  on  the  ground  to  get  rid  of  its  burden; 
but  the  horseman  masters  this  rage  with  the  bleeding 
prick  of  the  spur;  he  keeps  his  seat  as  if  he  were  one 
with  his  mount.  Then  the  gate  of  the  enclosure  is 
opened,  and  the  horse  darts  out  and  gallops  away  at 
breakneck  speed  until  utterly  winded.  This  unbri- 
dled run  suffices  to  tame  the  animal,  after  which  the 
horseman  rides  it  back,  unresisting  and  already  obe- 
dient to  bit  and  spur,  to  the  corral:  Henceforth  it 
can  be  left  with  the  domesticated  horses  without  fear 
of  its  trying  to  escape. 

1  i  Horses  are  classed,  according  to  the  rearing  and 


360  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

training  they  have  received,  in  two  chief  groups — 
saddle  horses  and  draft  horses.  The  first  serve 
as  mounts  for  riders,  the  second  draw  loads  in  ve- 
hicles. Among  saddle  horses  the  most  celebrated 
are  the  Arabian,  remarkable  for  their  mettle,  intelli- 
gence, docility,  fleetness  of  foot,  and  ability  to  endure 
long  abstinence  from  food  and  drink.  The  Arab 
steed  is  medium-sized  and  has  a  delicate  skin,  small 
head,  slender  frame,  a  spirited  bearing,  finely  mod- 
eled legs,  stomach  little  developed,  and  small,  pol- 
ished, very  hard  hoofs. 

* l  Draft  horses,  whose  function  it  is  to  draw  heavy 
loads  in  wheeled  vehicles  at  a  walking  pace,  have 
quite  opposite  characteristics.  They  lack  lightness 
and  mettle,  but  patiently  exert  their  strength,  which 
is  considerable,  as  might  be  inferred  from  their  more 
massive  build  and  from  the  great  quantity  of  feed 
that  their  maintenance  demands.  They  have  a  stout 
body,  heavy  walk,  thick  skin,  large  head,  wide  chest, 
broad  rump,  capacious  stomach,  strong  legs,  and 
hoofs  of  no  delicate  proportions.  France  possesses 
in  the  Boulogne  breed  the  most  highly  prized  of 
draft  horses.  This  vigorous  animal,  usually  dapple- 
gray,  plays  the  laborious  part  of  shaft-horse.  Hav- 
ing its  position  next  to  the  cart  or  wagon,  it  is  placed 
between  the  two  shafts.  It  is  the  one  to  pull  the 
hardest  on  up-grades,  the  one  that  eases  with  its 
enormous  weight  the  jolts  on  street  pavements  and 
checks  the  dangerous  momentum  of  the  vehicle  on 
down-grades.  Compare  these  two  pictures  that  I 


THE  HORSE  361 

show  you  here,  and  you  can  easily  see  in  the  first  the 
horse  made  for  speed ;  in  the  second,  the  horse  in- 
tended for  hard  work." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  ASS 

YOUR  uncle's  partiality,  you  have  already 
been  able  to  see,  my  friends,  is  for  the  weak, 
the  ill-treated,  the  unfortunate.  I  did  not  try  to 
eulogize  the  horse,  the  valiant  animal  commending 
itself  sufficiently  to  our  esteem  without  that;  but 
very  gladly  will  I  enumerate  the  good  qualities  of 
the  ass,  sad  victim  of  our  brutality  despite  the  serv- 
ice it  renders  us.  To  give  my  words  more  authority 
I  will  add  Buff  on 's  testimony  to  my  own. 

"  'The  ass,'  says  the  illustrious  historian  of  ani- 
mals, 4s  not  a  degenerate  horse,  as  many  imagine; 
it  is  neither  a  foreigner  nor  an  intruder  nor  a  bas- 
tard; like  all  animals  it  has  its  family,  its  species, 
and  its  rank.  Although  its  nobility  is  less  illustri- 
ous, it  is  quite  as  good,  quite  as  ancient,  as  that  of 
the  horse.  Briefly,  the  ass  is  an  ass,  nothing  more, 
nothing  less. 

' '  '  This  initial  fact  is  of  no  slight  importance.  In 
considering  the  ass  as  a  degenerate  horse  we  are  led 
to  compare  it  with  its  assumed  origin,  and  the  com- 
parison is  not  favorable  to  it:  the  long-eared  don- 
key makes  but  a  pitiful  showing  beside  the  brisk  and 
noble  courser.  But  as  it  is  in  reality  a  separate  ani- 
mal let  us  expect  of  it  only  the  qualities  of  its  spe- 

362 


THE  ASS  363 

cies,  the  qualities  of  the  ass,  without  depreciating 
the  animal  by  comparisons  with  others  that  are 
stronger  and  better  endowed.  Do  we  despise  rye 
because  it  is  not  so  good  as  wheat?  We  thank 
Heaven  for  both,  the  first  as  the  valued  crop  of  the 
mountains,  the  second  as  that  of  the  plains.  Let 
us  not,  then,  despise  the  ass  because  it  is  inferior  to 
the  horse.  It  possesses  the  good  qualities  of  its 
species,  and  cannot  possess  others.  We  fail  to  rec- 
ognize that  the  ass  would  be  our  foremost,  our  finest, 
our  best  made,  our  most  distinguished  domestic  ani- 
mal if  there  were  no  horse  in  the  world.  It  is  sec- 
ond instead  of  first,  and  for  that  reason  seems  as 
nothing  to  us.  It  is  comparison  that  degrades  it. 
We  look  at  it  and  judge  it,  not  on  its  own  merits,  but 
relatively  to  the  horse.  We  forget  that  it  has  all  the 
good  qualities  of  its  nature,  all  the  gifts  belonging 
to  its  species,  and  remember  only  the  beauty  and 
merits  of  the  horse,  which  it  would  be  impossible  for 
the  ass  to  possess.' 

"  Buff  on  asserts  that  the  nobility  of  the  ass  is  as 
ancient  as  that  of  the  horse.  I  will  venture  even 
further  than  the  master  and  maintain  that  it  is  cer- 
tainly more  ancient  in  the  sense  that  the  ass  was  do- 
mesticated before  the  horse.  It  was  the  first  to 
serve  the  Asiatic  shepherds  in  their  migration  in 
quest  of  better  pasturage.  It  carried  the  folded 
tent,  the  dairy  utensils,  the  new-born  lambs,  the 
women  and  children.  What  animal  did  the  ancient 
patriarchs  ride?  What  did  Abraham  ride  on  his 
journey  into  Egypt?  The  ass,  my  friends,  the 


364  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

peaceful  ass.  On  nearly  every  page  of  Genesis  the 
ass  is  mentioned;  the  horse  does  not  appear  there 
until  Joseph's  time." 

"The  ancient  origin  of  the  ass  could  not  have 
nobler  credentials/'  said  Jules. 

"Why  then,  asks  Buff  on,  such  scorn  for  the  ass,  so 
good,  patient,  sober,  useful!  Should  men  scorn, 
even  among  animals,  those  that  serve  them  well  and 
at  so  little  expense?  We  educate  the  horse,  take 
care  of  it,  teach  it,  train  it;  while  the  ass,  left  to  the 
rough  handling  of  the  lowest  servants  or  to  the  mis- 
chievous pranks  of  children,  far  from  improving  in 
quality,  can  only  deteriorate.  If  it  were  not  funda- 
mentally of  excellent  character,  it  would  lose  all  its 
virtues  from  the  way  in  which  it  is  treated.  It  is  the 
laughing-stock  and  the  drudge  of  boors  who  beat  it, 
overload  it,  and  wear  it  out  without  consideration." 

"Oh,  how  many  of  these  poor  donkeys  I  have 
seen,"  Jules  exclaimed,  "overwhelmed  with  their 
loads  and  beaten  unmercifully  because  they  hadn't 
strength  enough  to  go  on ! " 

"What  can  become  of  the  poor  animal  thus  de- 
graded by  bad  treatment?  An  intractable,  brutal- 
ized, bald-headed,  mangy,  weakened  creature,  object 
of  pity  for  any  one  who  has  not  a  heart  harder  than 
stone.  But  let  us  consider  the  ass  as  the  Orientals 
know  how  to  raise  it  in  all  the  comfort  and  content 
of  careful  home  treatment.  We  shall  find  an  ani- 
mal of  fine  appearance,  gentle  looks,  glossy  coat, 
distinguished  and  spirited  bearing,  trotting  briskly 
along  the  streets  of  the  large  towns,  where  it  is  ha- 


THE  ASS  365 

bitually  used  as  mount  for  going  from  one  quarter 
to  another.  Its  gait,  without  fatigue  for  the  rider, 
makes  it  preferred  to  the  horse ;  the  greatest  ladies, 
in  making  their  calls,  do  not  disdain  its  richly  orna- 
mented pack-saddle.  The  city  of  Cairo  alone,  in 
Egypt,  uses  some  forty  thousand  of  these  graceful 
trotters.  In  such  society  would  our  shameful  don- 
key dare  to  show  itself?  Ah!  let  us  pity  the  poor 
creature :  its  wretched  lot  has  made  it  what  it  is." 

"I  should  willingly  agree  with  the  people  of 
Cairo,"  said  Emile.  "I  should  prefer  the  donkey 
for  a  mount.  At  any  rate,  if  one  gets  a  fall  the 
danger  is  not  so  great." 

"The  donkey  is  just  the  mount  for  invalids,  chil- 
dren, women,  and  old  people ;  it  is  naturally  gentle, 
as  quiet  as  the  horse  is  spirited,  mettlesome,  and  im- 
petuous. Since,  by  endowing  it  with  a  patience  that 
is  proof  against  everything  and  with  a  small  size 
which  makes  a  fall  from  its  back  not  at  all  danger- 
ous, Heaven  has  created  the  donkey  expressly  for 
you,  show  the  good  beast  by  your  care  that  you  are 
not  forgetful  of  your  servant. 

"The  ass  is  patient;  it  suffers  punishment  and 
blows  with  constancy  and  perhaps  with  courage. 
This  fine  virtue  is,  as  it  were,  written  on  its  coat. 
You  will  often  see  on  the  donkey's  back  a  long  black 
stripe  and  another  shorter  one  crossing  the  first  on 
the  shoulders.  The  two  dark  bands  form  the  image 
of  the  cross,  divine  symbol  of  resignation  to  suf- 
fering. I  know  very  well  that  this  peculiarity  in  the 
animal's  coat  has  not  the  least  significance  in  itself; 


366  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

but  still  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  donkey,  the 
innocent  victim  of  our  brutality,  bears  the  cross  on 
its  back. 

"The  ass  is  temperate  in  both  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  its  food.  It  is  contented  with  the  tough- 
est and  least  palatable  pasturage,  which  horses  and 
other  animals  disdain  to  touch.  Along  the  roadside 
it  browses  the  prickly  tops  of  thistles,  branches  of 
willows,  shoots  of  hawthorn.  If  afterward  it  can 
roll  on  the  grass  a  moment,  it  counts  this  as  the  very 
summit  of  earthly  happiness.  But  it  is  very  dainty 
about  water :  it  will  drink  only  the  very  clearest  and 
from  streams  that  it  knows.  It  drinks  as  temper- 
ately as  it  eats,  and  does  not  plunge  its  nose  into  the 
water,  from  fear,  as  they  say,  of  the  reflection  of  its 
ears." 

'  *  That  's  a  funny  sort  of  fear, ' '  said  Jules. 

"Therefore  I  don't  believe  the  saying  is  well 
founded.  The  ass  is  not  so  silly  as  to  be  frightened 
by  the  reflection  of  its  ears.  If  it  drinks  merely  with 
its  lips,  without  plunging  its  nose  into  the  water,  it 
is  because,  like  the  cat,  it  fears  getting  wet.  It  does 
not,  like  the  horse,  wallow  in  mire  and  water;  it 
shrinks  from  even  wetting  its  feet,  and  will  make  a 
detour  to  avoid  mud.  Hence  its  legs  are  always  dry 
and  cleaner  than  a  horse's.  Its  aversion  to  wet  ex- 
plains sufficiently  its  manner  of  drinking,  without 
attributing  it  to  any  silly  fear  of  the  reflection  of  the 
animal's  ears." 

"Why  do  people  speak  of  that  fear,  then!" 

"Simply  for  the  malicious  pleasure  of  adding  one 


THE  ASS  367 

more  example  of  stupidity  to  the  donkey's  account. 
Is  it  not  agreed  that  the  unfortunate  beast  has  every 
possible  whimsicality?  Has  not  its  very  name  be- 
come the  favorite  term  to  denote  stupidity?  All 
this  is  pure  calumny ;  far  from  being  the  idiot  it  is 
called,  the  ass  is  a  cunning  beast,  prudent,  full  of  cir- 
cumspection, as  is  proved  by  the  care  it  takes  in  not 
drinking  except  from  known  springs  already  tested 
by  use.'* 

"Why  make  such  a  fuss  about  drinking?"  was 
Emile's  query. 

"Why?  Alas,  my  friend,  evil  sometimes  befalls 
us  for  not  exercising  the  donkey's  prudence  in  the 
choice  of  our  drinking-water.  The  unknown  spring 
whence  we  draw  water  may  be  too  cold,  unwhole- 
some, full  of  injurious  substances.  Better  advised 
than  we,  the  ass  will  put  its  lips  only  to  water  known 
by  experience  to  be  wholesome. ' ' 

"And  the  ass  is  a  hundred  times  right,"  Jules  de- 
clared. 

"  If  I  dared  to,  I  should  blame  the  ass  for  the  pas- 
sion it  has  for  rolling  on  the  ground,  sometimes, 
alas,  without  any  thought  of  the  load  it  carries.  But 
is  it  really  the  animal's  fault?  Since  nobody  takes 
the  trouble  to  curry  the  ass,  to  relieve  the  itching  of 
its  skin,  it  rolls  on  the  grass  and  seems  thus  to  re- 
proach its  master  for  neglect.  Let  the  curry-comb 
and  the  brush  keep  its  back  clean,  and  the  donkey 
will  cease  trying  to  rub  itself,  all  four  legs  in  the 
air,  against  the  prickly  foliage  of  the  thistles.  It  is 
the  accumulation  of  dust  and  dirt  that  torments  it, 


368  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

not  parasites,  for  of  all  hairy  animals  the  ass  is  the 
least  subject  to  vermin.  It  never  has  lice,  appa- 
rently on  account  of  the  hardness  and  dryness  of  its 
skin,  which  is  in  fact  harder  than  that  of  most  other 
quadrupeds.  For  the  same  reason  it  is  much  less 
sensitive  than  the  horse  to  the  whip  and  to  the  sting 
of  flies. 

"When  overloaded,  it  lies  on  its  stomach  and 
refuses  to  move,  determined  to  let  itself  be  beaten  to 
death  rather  than  get  up.  'Oh,  the  stubborn  brute! 
Oh,  the  stupid  ass!'  cries  the  master;  and  down 
comes  the  stick.  Is  it  stubbornness  on  the  animal's 
part  to  refuse  to  work!  Listen  first  to  a  short  story. 
In  the  old  days  of  the  Eoman  Empire  a  man  of  pro- 
found wisdom,  Epictetus,  was  a  slave  in  the  house  of 
a  brutal  master.  One  day  the  latter  beat  him  un- 
mercifully with  his  cane.  'Master,'  said  Epictetus 
to  him,  'I  warn  you  that  if  you  keep  that  up  you  will 
break  my  leg  and  your  slave  will  lose  in  value. '  The 
brute  struck  all  the  harder,  and  a  bone  broke.  With 
sublime  resignation  the  slave  uttered  no  reproach 
except  to  say:  'I  told  you  you  would  break  my  leg.' 

"To  return  to  the  ass  laden  beyond  its  strength, 
if  it  could  speak  it  would  certainly  express  itself 
thus  in  imitation  of  the  sage:  'Master,  I  assure  you 
very  humbly  the  load  you  are  putting  on  me  over- 
taxes my  strength  and  I  cannot  carry  it.'  But  the 
man  inconsiderately  continues  augmenting  the  bur- 
den until  at  last  the  animal's  back  bends  under  the 
weight.  The  donkey  first  inclines  its  head,  lowers 
its  ears,  and  then  lies  down.  That  is  its  way  of  say- 


THE  ASS  369 

ing,  *I  told  you  I  could  n't  carry  such  a  heavy  load.' 
Any  one  but  a  boor  would  hasten  to  lighten  the  load, 
instead  of  unmercifully  beating  the  animal,  and  the 
donkey  would  get  up  as  soon  as  the  weight  became 
suited  to  its  strength. ' ' 

"They  won't  make  the  donkey  any  stronger  by 
beating  it,"  was  Jules 's  comment. 

"And,  what  is  more,  they  will  turn  a  docile  animal 
into  an  obstinate,  ill-tempered  one.  In  its  early 
youth,  before  it  knows  the  hardness  of  life,  the  don- 
key is  gay,  playful,  full  of  pretty  tricks;  but  with 
the  sad  experience  of  age,  with  crushing  fatigue  and 
ill-treatment,  it  becomes  indocile,  slow,  obstinate, 
vindictive.  Is  not  that,  however,  our  fault?  How 
many  injuries  has  not  the  unfortunate  beast  to 
avenge,  and  what  a  host  of  good  qualities  must  it 
not  have  to  remain  in  the  end  as  we  find  it?  If  the 
donkey  harbored  ill-will  for  blows  received,  its  mas- 
ter would  become  an  object  of  hatred  and  it  would  be 
constantly  biting  and  kicking  him.  On  the  contrary, 
the  animal  becomes  attached  to  him,  scents  him  from 
a  distance,  distinguishes  him  from  all  other  men,  and 
can  if  necessary  find  him  amid  all  the  confusion  of  a 
fair  or  market. 

"With  passable  food  and,  above  all,  with  good 
usage,  the  ass  becomes  the  most  submissive,  faithful, 
and  affectionate  of  companions.  Let  it  be  saddled 
or  harnessed,  loaded  with  pack-saddle,  panniers, 
farm  tools,  or  what  not,  it  shirks  no  labor.  If  there 
is  any  fodder  for  it,  it  eats ;  if  not,  it  crops  the  this- 
tles by  the  side  of  the  road;  and  if  there  are  no  this- 


370  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

ties  it  goes  hungry  without  letting  its  fast  diminish 
in  the  least  its  good  will.  It  is  a  philosophical  beast, 
neither  imiliated  by  bearing  the  poor  man's  pack- 
saddle  nor  puffed  up  by  the  rich  man's  elegant  hous- 
ings, and  anxious  only  to  do  its  duty  everywhere 
and  always. 

"The  ass  has  good  eyes,  keen  scent,  and  excellent 
ears.  From  the  quickness  of  its  hearing  and  the 
length  of  its  ears  the  inference  is  drawn  that  the 
animal  is  timid.  I  am  willing  to  assent  to  this,  the 
ass  never  having  earned  a  reputation  for  prowess 
or  daring.  Moreover,  its  quickness  of  hearing  and 
length  of  ears  are  shared  by  many  other  animals  that 
do  not  surpass  it  in  courage,  as,  for  example,  the 
hare  and  the  rabbit,  which  are  even  more  richly  en- 
dowed than  the  ass  in  respect  to  length  of  ears. 
Their  weakness  and  defenselessness  expose  them 
to  a  thousand  dangers  and  make  their  life  a  contin- 
ual state  of  alarm.  To  be  warned  in  time  of  peril 
and  save  themselves  by  speedy  flight,  their  surest 
dependence  is  the  excellence  of  their  hearing,  which 
is  partly  due  to  the  enormous  size  of  the  external 
ear,  movable  in  every  direction  so  as  to  receive 
sounds  from  all  sides. 

"Merely  because  the  ass  has  the  long  ears  indica- 
tive of  timidity  shall  we  charge  the  animal  with 
poltroonery!  That  would  be  unfair,  for  if  it  does 
not  court  danger  it  at  least  knows  how  to  face  it 
when  peaceful  means  of  safety  are  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. The  horse  is  warlike,  the  ass  prefers  the  gen- 
tle ways  of  peace  and  consents  to  the  arbitrament  of 


THE  ASS  371 

force  only  when  no  other  course  is  possible ;  but  then 
its  courage  rises  to  meet  the  danger.  If  in  its  wild 
state  it  is  surprised  by  an  assailant,  it  hastens  to  re- 
join its  companions  of  the  pasture ;  and,  all  grouping 
together  as  do  wild  horses  in  their  war  tactics,  they 
begin  to  kick  and  bite  with  such  fury  that  the  enemy 
decamps  as  quickly  as  possible,  with  jaw-bone  frac- 
tured by  a  flying  hoof." 

1 1 After  such  an  exploit,"  said  Jules,  "let  no  one 
tell  me  the  donkey  is  a  coward. ' ' 

"I  fancy,"  put  in  Emile,  "that  after  routing  the 
enemy  the  donkeys  do  not  fail  to  chorus  a  song  of 
victory. ' J 

"It  is  not  to  be  doubted  that,  to  congratulate  one 
another  and  to  celebrate  their  triumph,  the  donkeys 
sound  a  few  clarion  notes,  such  as  they  so  well  know 
how  to  give.  The  horse  neighs  and  the  donkey 
brays,  the  latter  cry  being  very  loud,  very  prolonged, 
very  disagreeable,  and  composed  of  a  succession  of 
discords  ranging  from  sharp  to  grave  and  from 
grave  to  sharp." 

"And  the  last  notes,"  added  Emile,  "are  hoarser 
and  gradually  die  away." 

"I  see  Emile  is  well  acquainted  with  the  donkey's 
voice.  Let  us  go  on  to  some  of  its  other  peculiari- 
ties. From  time  immemorial  the  ass  has  had  the 
reputation  of  being  stupid :  its  very  name  is  synony- 
mous with  stupidity.  There  is  k  whole  vocabulary 
of  abusive  epithets  that  we  bestow  on  the  ass,  and 
these  epithets  nearly  always  allude  to  its  stupidity. 
We  call  it  a  numbskull,  a  ninny,  a  jackass,  a  wooden- 


372  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

head,  and  I  don't  know  what  all;  and,  as  a  crowning 
slander  to  the  animal,  the  dunce  of  his  class  at  school 
is  made  to  wear  a  cap  with  donkey's  ears.  Never 
has  calumny  been  more  flagrant.  The  donkey  a 
dunce?  By  no  means!  Is  it  not  the  donkey  that, 
with  a  prudence  worthy  of  imitation,  refuses  to 
drink  from  unknown  springs?  Does  it  not,  when 
lost  in  the  crowd  at  market,  know  how  to  find  its 
master  almost  as  easily  as  the  dog,  and  does  it  not 
begin  to  bray  with  joy  at  sight  of  him?  But  there 
is  something  better  than  this  to  prove  its  intelli- 
gence. Eecall  to  mind  the  wagoner's  long  team  of 
horses  on  the  highway.  There  are  four,  six,  eight  of 
them,  sturdily  tugging  at  the  enormous  load.  Be- 
tween the  two  shafts,  the  most  arduous  position  of 
all,  is  the  massive  shaft-horse,  while  at  the  head  of 
the  team  proudly  marches  a  donkey,  harnessed  very 
lightly.  What  is  this  little  creature  doing  at  the 
head  of  those  robust  companions?  First,  it  pulls 
with  vigor,  so  far  as  its  strength  will  admit;  and, 
secondly,  it  has  a  still  more  important  function  to 
fill.  Its  part  is  to  guide  the  equipage  and  keep  it  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  to  avoid  ruts,  get  around  dif- 
ficult places,  and,  in  general,  pick  the  way.  While 
the  heavy  horses  work  only  with  their  shoulders  to 
draw  the  load,  the  donkey,  to  lead  the  way,  works  at 
the  same  time  with  its  head.  This  post  of  honor, 
this  position  as  leader  of  the  file — would  it  be  as- 
signed to  the  ass  if  the  animal  were  not  recognized 
as  the  most  intelligent  of  the  team? 

"I  should  like  to  show  you  also  the  donkey  trav- 


THE  ASS  373 

eling  in  mountainous  countries  in  company  with 
horses  and  mules.  It  is  the  one  to  direct  the  hand, 
showing  the  others  the  turnouts  to  take  to  avoid  a 
dangerous  place.  If  the  path  gets  too  had,  the  don- 
key foresees  the  peril  with  an  astonishing  sagacity; 
it  turns  aside  a  moment  from  the  beaten  track,  finds 
a  way  around  the  difficult  spot  by  a  cleverly  calcu- 
lated bend,  and  takes  the  regular  road  again  farther 
on.  Any  mule  or  horse  that  disdains  to  follow  the 
donkey 's  intelligent  leadership  runs  the  risk  of  get- 
ting into  trouble  whence  it  will  be  very  hard  to  get 
it  out." 

"As  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Jules,  "the  donkey  is 
more  intelligent  than  the  horse,  since  it  acts  as  the 
horse's  guide." 

"That  is  my  opinion,  too,  in  spite  of  the  reputa- 
tion for  stupidity  that  it  has  acquired,  I  don't  know 
why.  The  donkey  walks,  trots,  and  gallops  like  the 
horse,  but  all  its  movements  are  within  a  smaller 
compass  and  much  slower.  Although  it  can  start 
out  at  a  brisk  enough  pace,  it  cannot  cover  great 
distances  or  continue  on  the  road  for  a  long  time. 
Whatever  gait  it  takes,  if  the  animal  is  urged  to  go 
faster  it  is  soon  exhausted.  It  is  especially  suited 
to  mountainous  countries.  Its  small,  hard  hoofs  en- 
able it  to  follow  stony  paths  with  the  greatest  ease ; 
its  prudent  gait  and  firm  and  circumspect  step  give 
it  access  to  rough  places  and  the  steepest  slopes. 

"The  donkey  is  very  robust.  In  proportion  to 
its  size  it  is  perhaps  of  all  animals  the  one  that  can 
carry  the  heaviest  load,  but  as  its  body  is  small  the 


374.  OUR  HUMBLE  HELPERS 

burden  placed  on  it  ought  not  to  exceed  moderate 
limits.  What  a  useful  servant  would  one  not  have 
in  an  animal  having  the  qualities  of  the  donkey  and 
the  vigorous  development  of  the  horse!  Such  a 
creature  does  not  exist  in  the  natural  order,  but  man 
has  obtained  it  by  the  intervention  of  his  art. 

"The  species  of  the  horse  and  that  of  the  ass  are 
unmistakably  distinct  from  each  other  and  never 
cross  in  the  wild  state.  Nevertheless,  since  they  are 
very  nearly  related,  as  their  close  resemblance  in 
form  proves,  cross-breeding  between  them  is  pos- 
sible with  careful  management.  From  this  unnat- 
ural union  comes  the  mule,  of  which  the  father  is  the 
ass  and  the  mother  the  mare.  The  mule  then  is  not 
a  separate  species  of  animal  having  its  own  inde- 
pendent existence ;  it  is  not  an  ass  nor  a  horse,  but  a 
bastard  creature  intermediate  between  the  two.  To 
its  father,  the  ass,  it  owes  its  large  head,  long  ears, 
narrow  and  hard  hoofs,  thick  skin,  rough  coat,  gen- 
erally dark  in  color  and  sometimes  ornamented  with 
the  two  black  stripes  in  the  form  of  a  cross  on  the 
back.  To  the  ass  it  also  owes  its  temperate  habits, 
its  tenacity  in  work,  its  robust  constitution,  and  the 
sureness  of  foot  so  necessary  in  mountainous  coun- 
tries. From  its  mother,  the  mare,  it  gets  its  pow- 
erful equine  frame,  its  quick  gait,  its  freedom  of 
limb.  Its  rude  strength,  moderation  in  supplying 
its  animal  wants,  power  of  enduring  the  utmost  fa- 
tigue, indifference  to  extreme  heat,  make  it  one  of 
the  most  useful  animals,  especially  in  hot  climates 
where  there  are  long  spells  of  drought. " 


THE  ADIRONDACKS 


By  T.  MORRIS  LONGSTRETH 

This  is  a  guide  to  New  York  State's  great  natural  park,  the  story  of 
two  jolly  companions  on  a  fascinating  journey,  and  an  informal  history, 
told  in  the  most  engaging  style,  of  the  romantic  region  from  the  days 
when  the  Indians  had  possession  of  it  down  to  to-day,  when  the  State 
Commission  is  doing  its  splendid  work  for  its  preservation. 

The  ground  covered  by  the  author,  who  gives  his  facts  while  he  tells 
the  story  of  his  own  and  a  friend's  wanderings  through  the  Adirondacks, 
covers  a  section  of  woodland  wilderness  larger  than  Connecticut,  girdled 
and  laced  with  over  a  thousand  lakes,  shouldered  into  the  skies  by  hundreds 
of  mountains.  The  forest  is  swarming  with  deer  and  the  waters  with 
fish.  There  are  sections  in  the  Adirondacks  where  one  may  go  for  miles 
without  meeting  another  human  being;  and  there  are  clubs  and  hotels 
offering  all  the  luxuries  of  the  most  sophisticated  city.  Whatever  the 
Adirondacks  section  is  and  has  been  the  author  manages  to  tell  in  his 
narrative. 

There  is,  for  instance,  an  account  of  the  early  settlement  there  of 
Napoleon's  brother,  of  the  different  tribes  of  Indians  and  their  warfare, 
of  Trudeau,  Stevenson,  Dewey,  Warner,  and  others  whose  names  are 
associated  with  the  region,  and  of  the  present-day  work  of  the  State's 
Conservation  Commission.  There  is  information  as  to  how  to  travel, 
what  to  expect  in  various  localities,  as  to  roads,  hotels,  etc.,  etc. 

32  full-page  illustrations  and  maps 
Price  $2.50 

At  All  Bookstores   TUC    fFNTIIPY   CC\     353  Fourth  Avenue 
Published  by     lOEi   VEilllUIVl     VAJ.  New  York  City 


THE  STORY-BOOK 
OF  SCIENCE 

By  JEAN  HENRI  FABRE 

Translated  from  the  Nineteenth  French  Edition  by 
Florence  Constable  Bicknell 

A  book  of  popular  science,  about  the  metals  under  the  earth,  the 
plants  and  animals  on  the  surface,  and  the  planets  in  the  heavens  above, 
told  in  story-form  by  the  most  gifted  nature  writer  the  world  has  known 
in  a  hundred  years.  It  is  a  book  especially  for  young  people  of  from 
ten  to  sixteen  years;  it  is  a  fascinating  and  accurate  account  in  crystal- 
clear  language  for  grown-ups  with  hearts  still  young  enough  to  permit 
them  to  be  interested  in  the  great  living  but  inarticulate  world  around 
them. 

Maeterlinck  has  called  Fabre  "the  insects'  Homer."  In  France  his 
popularising  hand-books  have  gone  into  many  editions.  Of  recent  years, 
too,  the  entire  world  that  reads  has  bestirred  itself  to  do  honor  to  the 
eminent  scientist  who  studied  the  nature  world  with  the  zeal  of  a  medieval 
monk,  whose  background  of  scholarship  and  innate  chivalry  and  good 
humor  always  made  itself  felt  in  his  writing,  and  who  expressed  himself 
with  the  simplicity  and  fire  of  a  poet. 

The  Century  Co.  counts  itself  fortunate  in  being  able  to  offer  this 
French  classic  in  this  admirable  translation. 

"It  should  prove  an  invaluable  book  for  growing  children  ...  It 
makes  scientific  facts  little  known  common  property  for  all,  and  is  withal 
a  deeply  interesting,  charming  exposition  of  natural  truths." — The  Literary 
Digest. 

Illustrated.     Price  $2. 00 

At  All  Bookstores   TUC    rTWTTTDV    Cf\      353  Fourth  Avenue 
Published  by     I  "t    CtW  I  U  K I     tU.  NeW  York  City 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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